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citrinae · 11 days ago

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cursed are the ones who ate the fruit.

robin x reader

summary; you always had a thing for passivity. watching events come and go, not getting involved. yet this is soon to change when you slip away from a halloween party to spend some time with the woman rumoured to have bargained with the devil.

contents; murder, ambiguous morality, college!AU, afab!reader, wc: 1.3. i support women’s rights but most importantly i support women’s wrongs. part of my spooktober nonsense.

masterlist

“Don't trust Nico Robin,” was the first thing ever told to you as a first-year student. “Whatever you do, stay away from that witch. Nothing good ever comes from associating yourself with her.” Someone said she killed a man, wet and pathetic in his own bed. Someone else insisted she was the reason why the dean's wife ended it with him, going on about how the poor fucking guy was made to sleep in his office for a week until he’d be allowed to return to an empty apartment.

But one rumour they all seem to agree with is that she sold her soul to the Devil. “Demon woman,” as they described her to you back then. You saw it as a really unfortunate exaggeration; they insisted it was not.

Everyday you see her—dark hair, fitted dresses, leather jackets—sitting all by herself on the marble stairs of the faculty, a portrait of modern tragedy. Most of the time it’s with a book in her hands, and not once have you felt the defiant urge to join her and strike up a conversation about whatever the title unlocks in either of you. After all, you’re pretty sure she noticed you, too, welcoming your presence with a smile each time your eyes happen to stumble upon each other. Always so small, always so sweet, the type of natural innocence making you want to pick it up and brush it like some kind of expensive china. Pushing coins into the rusty vending machine by the dining hall, you sometimes catch yourself scripting interactions in your head. “Is it true?” you’d ask her at some point, leaves creaking under your boot. “That you dealt your soul away?”

The answer never comes, for you cannot quite figure what her voice would sound like. You haven’t heard her talking to anyone before.

Would she talk to you, were you to get closer?

Despite the number of questions clutching your stomach at the sight of this woman, so lonely and beautiful in the comfortable distance, yet so vile from up close they needed to invoke the Bible to describe the experience, you prefer to believe that you were made for the simpler things in life. So you’ve tried your best to live your college days without thinking much of Nico Robin. Attend courses and sip on cheap booze and make friends like anyone your age would be expected to do.

It’s this thought that pushed you to this place to begin with, keeping yourself busy by focusing on the multicoloured lights and the threads of fake spider web hanging about some colleague’s rented apartment. Kitsch costumes and plastic glasses, board games and smudged eyeliner, air dense with sweat and perfume. The music is loud, and people have to raise their voices to make themselves clear for important stuff like cigarette breaks or needing to hold a fellow’s hair in the bathroom. Someone compliments your costume; by default you find something nice to say about theirs as well. By the corner of your eye you watch a couple sucking each other’s face off, flushed and lazy on a beer-stained sofa.

A familiar voice suggests that you gather for some rounds of Spin the Bottle, and a tepid gush of bodies shoots into a circle as soon as it does. This time, you decide to simply watch the game take its course; lifting yourself onto a table, back flat against the window, intervening with a joke whenever you catch an opportunity to. For a moment you think everything should be like this: light and approachable, a recorded show you can skip and rewind to your heart’s content.

The bottle spins, and spins, and spins. Then it stops. Laughter turns into a muffled series of sounds as you absent-mindedly watch the leaves bend and billow outside the window.

And that’s when you see her.

Strands of hair flutter behind the trees. There’s a canvas bag in her hands, and a leather jacket thrown over her shoulders. She looks to be in a hurry.

Your heart squeezed inside your ribcage, you hurl yourself towards your boots and coat, breathing out an excuse as you leave the crowds. Stairs echo under your feet, your mind blank with nothing but the pressing realisation that tonight might be your only chance to get your answers. Faster you run, over puddles and through brittle trees, cold seeping into your clothes and numbing your fists. You need to see her. No, you need to hear her, maybe even understand her. Behind you the polluted glow of the town fades as you dive deeper into the woods. Something moves into a bush nearby, but adrenaline pulses into your ears a bit too loud for you to care.

When you stop, your feet feel like they’re about to collapse. You bring your hand to your spleen. Gingerly your eyes climb up the height of Robin’s boots, dark leather stretched to the knees, and when they reach her face, you’re met with a smile different from the one you were used to seeing between classes. There’s something sly to it now, something wicked. Shame clutches your stomach as you remember the stories your colleagues told by the dumpster. “Woman’s fucking bad news.”

“You’re a bold one,” Robin’s voice snatches you out of your head. It’s soft, divine, and your heart stops for a good second as she slightly tilts her head to the side. “Coming all the way here to catch me doing something bad.”

She doesn’t sound mad; if anything there’s a tinge of amusement for you to pick out from her voice. Like she expected you to meet you here, under these circumstances. You cannot seem to take your eyes from the blood under her fingernails, still not fully dried out.

“Are you going to kill me?” you hear yourself saying.

Robin’s laugh is melodic, like a bell chime. It makes you feel sick. “Would you tell on me?”

You shake your head.

“Even if you did,” Robin says. “I wouldn’t lay a finger on you.”

Something melts within you as the words leave her. With the courage built by Robin’s perplexing hospitality, you point towards the bag hoisted around her shoulder. “What’s in there?”

“History,” is all she says.

“Of what?”

“Of this town, our college. Things they don’t want you to know.”

Taking into account the gravity of the situation, you find it hard to comprehend the ease with which she’s telling you all this. Inner cheek pressed between your teeth, a new question takes form in your head: are you really a threat to her? Looking into Robin’s eyes, primed and intelligent, you’re inclined to say no.

Wind blows wrathfully through tree crowns, through Robin’s hair. There’s a numbing chill biting into your bones and for a second you’re sure you’ve seen a pair of horns sprouting from her head.

Further suspicion lingers on the roof of your mouth. “The dean is dead.”

A second later, “I had no choice.”

“But there’s no evidence that you did.”

“There is not,” she smiles, all warmth.

“So why are you telling me this?” you ask her, and you can hear her heels press into the ground as she moves forward.

Robin carefully measures the uncertainty in your eyes, sweeps a cold finger below your chin to align your stares. “Didn’t you want to know me better?”

Heat cuts through your lungs; you say nothing.

“Besides,” she continues. Freesia and violets in your nostrils; a hint of sulphur you choose to ignore. “Recently I’ve taken quite an interest in you as well.”

And even now, with all the cards laid on the table, Nico Robin continues to stay a mystery to you. Even though you’re certain there’s something evil lurking behind her shoulders, leaning into the undeniable warmth of her words, stars dashing off her eyes with the promise of building something new, something better, you cannot help but wish to keep on unravelling her like a most fascinating riddle.

#one piece x reader #robin x reader #nico robin x reader #one piece scenario #spooktober 2024

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donnerpartyofone · 1 year ago

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This has been a really hard one to talk about. I'm always very ambivalent about mourning celebrities. I try to remember that I don't know these people, that what is really mourned by most of us is the person's ongoing work, which in the best cases has helped us understand ourselves and the world in which we live. Unavoidably, though, you can start to develop the sense that you know these people personally, which isn't true or even appropriate necessarily, I mean you have no idea whether you would even like someone you've only seen on a screen or received an autograph from; but at the same time, I don't know if you can really force yourself not to feel like the deceased celebrity is a dear friend you will never get to talk to again (the last time I tried and failed was the passing of Lux Interior). Maybe this is more forgivable, and also more inevitable, if you feel like you grew up with the person.

Of course this is all about ME now, but my mother (who also died from cancer) was an extremely hip, brilliant, funny individual who for whatever reason refused to form a relationship with me. This was pretty strange, because we liked a lot of the same things--B movies, old comics, all types of camp and kitsch--but when I liked those things, it was in poor taste and punishable by exile, whereas when she liked those things, it was evidence of her cultural genius. Before I make anybody too mad I should say that I'm being a little bit unfairly reductive just so I can get to the point, which is that one of the few things we could share was Pee-Wee's Playhouse. I didn't know anything about the show's more adult origins or the fact that Paul Reubens was sort of a performance artist, but I didn't have to. Pee-Wee's Playhouse was a feast for any child's senses: stylish, hilarious, and on some subliminal level, really sophisticated. I was clued into some of what was going on just because I watched it with my mom, who always laughed at Pee-Wee's winks and nudges to the hep parents in the audience. The show might have been my first encounter with the kind of anthropological humor favored by people like David Byrne and Laurie Anderson, artists who engage subversively with cliches, stereotypes, and other memetic parts of popular culture. In Pee-Wee's Playhouse, with its sharp, edgy cast and crew, kids like me were getting into fine art without even knowing it--which is possibly the best way to learn about art anyway.

In fact, on the other side of our house, I became obsessed with Gary Panter's incredible punk opus Jimbo In Paradise, a Dantesque comic book about an innocent young guy living in a dystopian future, where he is occasionally joined by guest stars such as Nancy and Hedorah. I was about 7 when I started reading Jimbo over and over again even though I could barely understand it, and I had no idea that Gary had pretty much designed Pee-Wee's Playhouse. I'm speaking about him so familiarly because I got to know him a little bit as a grownup. I remember Gary talking about how private Paul Reubens could be. He used to do this thing where he would accept a dinner invitation from anybody who asked, as sort of a stunt, but he had to stop doing it because people became so intrusive and entitled with him. Gary said that they'd be walking around in New York and when they saw an obvious Pee-Wee fan gearing up for an offensive, Paul Reubens would sort of transform into this totally different person, putting out an aura that let you know not to fuck with him. It's crazy-making to think that someone who was so protective of the boundary between his private and public selves had to suffer that ridiculous arrest, but it's heartening that most of society eventually grew the fuck up and forgot about it. It's also helpful to remember when he turned up later on the MTV Music Video Awards and started off by asking the audience, "HEARD ANY GOOD JOKES LATELY??"

I'm glad we got one more Pee-Wee special in the past several years, but I always wished that we would see Paul Reubens in more movies. He was such a cool actor, funny, convincing, and naturally charismatic. While people are cycling through their favorite roles of his, I want to point out that he had a great role on a recent HBO miniseries called Mosaic, an intense, engrossing crime drama that I definitely recommend if you have access. Maybe I'll rewatch it, too. In closing, here's a great story that I grabbed from Facebook that should warm everybody's heart, along with the heartbreaking statement (inappropriately cropped by Instagram of course) released upon the death of the very private Pee-Wee Herman. It makes you wish you could thank him in person, for everything. The best we can do is just remember him.

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gemsofgreece · 3 months ago

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Καλημέρα! I'd like to ask you about the colours of Classical statues and temples. Have you seen any reconstructions you liked? Bless the people investigating them, it seems they didn't wanna assume too hard so they ended up making the statues look somewhat on the very gaudy side. (I sent the same ask to @alatismeni-theitsa just to be sure)

Haha this is a sore spot for me because I really do love the woren all white look!

However, we all have to acknowledge that the preference for the bare white look is largely a bias infliltrating our minds through the presumed superiority of Renaissance Art. The colour of the ancient statues had already faded by that time, making Renaissance artists believe that this was the actual classical prototype that was supposed to be imitated and glorified.

I believe our love for the all-white classical look in sculpture is based on both this bias, but also the aetherealness, distance and solemnity that was believed to be communicated through this lack of colour and the exposition of the work done on the bare luxurious marble. That second reason is what I find beautiful in it too.

Of course, actual Ancient Greek art was coloured. Given that Greek art of antiquity aimed at a naturalistic approach, it is absolutely reasonable that the artists wanted their artwork to have the colours of the real subject / object it was depicting. What you see now are recreations based on whatever colour-tracing methods we have available today, which are not infallible yet. While the general conclusions must be more or less accurate ("this part of the chiton was red and the hair was black" etc), they still remain hypothetical because the methodology cannot perfectly detect hues, paint layers, different pressures on the paint and all those techniques that provide nuance and are integral to art. Having said this, we should also remember that creating paint hues in antiquity was extremely difficult and obviously the paint job done could not be equal to that of the last centuries. Therefore, with our modern criteria, ancient paint job must have often be underwhelming but, again, I believe we also are in a position in which we do not get the precise, fully accurate picture yet.

In a way, this conviction we all have that coloured statues are kitsch is kind of arbitrary, simply because the notion that sculpture reached its peak with the Renaissance is so very deeply engraved to our minds. Think about modern art for a moment: modern paintings, figures and figurines, ceramics with paint... or even sculpture from other cultures of the world outside the Greco-Roman sphere: none of this is considered kitsch, simply because none of this is directly compared to Renaissance scupting. (Although of course other cultures' arts are often viewed derogatorily through this very pervasive presumption that the Renaissance was the peak.)

We also should return back to the considerable probability of poorly made recreations, which lack nuance. Take these examples:

Jesus Christ Superstar

Not the best, right? However, if we see paintings and art from earlier times i.e Mycenaean and Minoan and contemporary ones like rare surviving Classical, Hellenistic and Grecoroman art, we realise that colours were used wisely and there was the concept of layering, shading and creating detail and nuance.

In this art of Alexander (100BC, exhibited in the Museum of Napoli) we can see an extensive use of highlighting, layering and creating shadows, which is very different from the blast of thick paint you will see on these recreations.

There are also recreations which prove exactly that a lot of the responsibility regarding how we perceive them lies on the very quality of the recreation itself.

Source

Honestly, for me this is totally fine. You can find fine modern art - even modern Greek folk art - of similar styles or colouring. The quality of the recreation here is far superior than the ones above.

This one, I am also totally fine with it, especially the last of the colourised ones. It took exactly the same amount of extraneous work for the artist to sculpt plus the struggle of painting it. And it gives us so much additional information about what fashion looked like.

The recreations made for ancient Greek temples prove more how colour could actually be used in good taste:

If I told you this was some late medieval manuscript art, you'd not think of it as kitsch. The idea immediately kicks in when I say it is a recreation of a Parthenon frieze colourised. (Source)

In this recreation IMO the Parthenon looks hella fine!

I confess I struggle with the Caryatids of the Erechtheion:

but I suppose it's partly because to us it looks like you took all the redhead Barbies you had and assigned them to carry the building. Without all the preconceptions we have, which are informed by kitsch cheap art of the last decades and the axiom that Renaissance sculpture is the best, Ancient Greeks were probably astonished by the beauty and realism of six different beauties making the temple stand. For me, who I am influenced by all that I have analyzed, my colour tolerance would go as far as having all of them like the Caryatid in the middle, with the white peplos. Apart from that, the paint in the temple is totally beautiful and elegant. (Source)

The neoclassical Academy of Athens uses paint like in antiquity except it draws the line in the statues (and perhaps it uses more gold). The Academy of Athens is exemplary.

Zappeion also has colour and it's marvelous:

I believe this was the aesthetic ancient artists were going for.

In conclusion, I think ancient artists tried to use paint in the best of their abilities, no differently than how we also almost always add colour to our modern art, except of course there must have been limitations to the qualities and varieties of paint hues that could be produced at the time, which would inescepably sometimes lead to results less than ideal. Regardless of how well or poorly painted any particular ancient artwork was, we are predisposed to view it negatively anyway because we are wired to believe that the Renaissance style set the standards for what is beautiful and what is not and that when it comes to colour in sculpture, less is obligatorily (much) more.

That's all I got to say! From my side, καληνύχτα! (I'm posting this way past midnight lol)

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ky-yk · 1 year ago

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tears of the kingdom (ayj x f!reader)

genre: fluff || word count: 1.7k

author's note: two works in a day, who is she?? anyways my kitsch obsession gave birth to my jock yujin fixation and then this came about so i hope y'all enjoy mwamwa

"zelda...zelda...where is it?"

maybe there was a god up there because the sequel to one of your favorite games of all time, the legend of zelda: tears of the kingdom, happened to come out on the last day of your final exams of the year. you'd been skipping lunch since the game was announced so that you could pick up a copy for yourself on release day. and now here you were, scanning the wall of small titles against bright red spines looking for your well-deserved reward.

mumbling to yourself, your eyes repeatedly raked over the switch covers while debating with yourself whether you should cut your losses and just ask the lone worker by the counter. which you'd rather die than do -- the only person you'd want to be talking to is princess zelda, thank you very much.

a certain someone didn't get the memo, apparently.

"um, hey," you heard from beside you. everyone and their mother could recognize that voice anywhere.

"you're y/n, right? i'm yujin, we go to school together."

of course i know who you are, ahn yujin. resident quarterback, heartthrob, and obnoxious little sh--"oh yeah, that's me," you ended up saying.

don't get it twisted: you definitely saw the appeal if she just wasn't so. damn. loud. your morning would be perfect: birds chirping, wind blowing, and food digesting until you'd hear yujin and her cronies pass the halls making way too much noise for 6:30 in the morning.

"oh thank god, someone who can help me," she sighed in relief. your curiosity was piqued: why was yujin in a video game store at 9pm on a friday night when jang wonyoung was throwing a huge rager on the other side of town (whether or not you were invited is unimportant).

"you do know there's someone who gets paid to do that right over there, right?" you remarked with a raise of your eyebrow.

"i mean, i guess you're right, but i could say the same for you."

how long had she been standing there then?! and how did she notice that...

"touche."

she beamed, showing off her charming eye smile. "well, can you help me?"

"with...?" you asked apprehensively. if there was anything you were known for, it was for reading into things way too much. your friends would go to you last for anything because of how much time you spent directing every little happening. what if i'm being punk'd and the whole football team is outside ready to burst through with their cameras and--

"um, my friend sakura's birthday is coming up and i wanted to get her this game," she pulled up google and then showed you her phone. "you know it?"

lo and behold, there was the cover art for the very game you were looking for.

"oh yeah, i know it. i've been looking for it here too, actually, but it doesn't look like there's any on the shelves."

"huh," she remarked with a pout. cute--wait, what?

"i mean, we could try asking the guy over there? you know, the one who gets paid to look for it?" i asked, looking over to the tall and lanky boy who sat behind the counter who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

she chuckled. "well, i guess you're right."

on the short trip across the store, your mind would not. shut. up.

wait, she knows kkura-unnie? but her and kkura-unnie could not be farther from each other on the high school food chain. then again, anything is possible: this is a world where ahn yujin could act all shy and quiet, notice me talking to myself, and look like a puppy dressed in her varsity hoodie and cyclers instead of partying it up with the rest of the school.

"excuse me, do you have this game in stock?" she asked the boy -- whose name tag read 'felix' -- expectantly.

"hm, we've only got one copy left though," felix replied after checking the stack of switch games under the counter and placing the lone copy on it.

you and yujin looked at each other, eyes wide, and going through your own dilemmas.

"oh, really...?" you asked.

"yeah, a bunch of people came to pick up some copies throughout the day."

"hm, alright. well, she'll take it," yujin said.

felix hummed in acknowledgement and scanned the game while you looked over at the girl in disbelief.

"but..."

"kkura-unnie's birthday isn't until sunday; i've got time. come on, felix is waiting for your payment."

you didn't even register him telling you the price because you were just staring at this girl. what in the...

"oh, i'm sorry. here you are," you said as you took out your weeks worth of allowance. yujin noticed your face scrunch up as you passed over $70 in cash to felix and couldn't suppress her little chuckle.

you both made your way out of the store with yujin holding the door open for you and the rest of the store to be met with a gust of cold, refreshing night air.

"are you sure you don't want this game? it might be hard to find tomorrow -- i mean, you saw how this was the last copy they had in stock..." you turned your body to face her, arms flailing about as you spoke. all you were met with was an easy smile from the star quarterback.

"don't sweat it, y/n. i saw that you really wanted it and besides, my presence is enough of a gift for kkura-unnie, don't you think? she'll understand," she replied cheekily, causing you to roll your eyes in response.

"anyways, i'll get going, bye yujin!"

"wait! do you need a ride home? it's pretty late, don't you think?"

"don't sweat it, yujinnie," you turned her words around on her. "my house isn't much farther from here."

"don't you live nearby wonyoungie?"

"yes...? how'd you know that?"

"i've been known to be observant," she replied nonchalantly.

"is that just code for 'stalker' or..."

"yah!" exasperated at the accusation, she hit your shoulder.

"i'm kidding, i'm kidding, god did you have to hit me?!"

her eyes went wide in worry. " i am so s--"

"stalker, violent, man, wait until the school hears the truth about their resident heartthrob," you joked, trying to ease her worries, which seems to have worked when you saw her shoulders relax and her trademark smile take over her features.

"anyways, let me give you a ride home. i was going to go over to wonyoung's anyways," she said.

"if you insist," you replied.

quietly, you both made your way over to her car. she opened the door for you before making her way over to the driver's side, the action making you raise your eyebrows before getting inside. she turned on the ignition and reminded you to put your seatbelt on.

"i'm not an idiot," you rolled your eyes.

"better safe than sorry, y/n. i wouldn't want your blood on my hands."

your eyes might as well have been seeing the back of your skull with how much you'd been rolling your eyes at the girl. when she heard the buckle click, she started making her way out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

around strangers, you were usually reserved. you pretty much just flew around the school like a ghost, doing your own things with no one minding you. it took a while for you to get talkative.

it took one night for ahn yujin. what can you say, the girl was interesting.

"i'm curious, how do you know kkura-unnie?"

"oh, we go to the same dance class every weekend."

she dances?! "you dance?!"

"is that so surprising?" she spared you a glance before focusing back on the road. she's got precious cargo after a--what?

"kinda, yeah. i'm learning a lot about you, ahn yujin."

"only good things, i'm hoping."

"very good things, yujinnie."

after talking about anything and everything, you realized she'd already pulled up to the front of your house.

"well, here you are."

"oh. alright," you replied, the disappointment evident in your tone. you were about to open the door when yujin spoke up.

"hey, i don't know about you, but i had a lot of fun, y/n. if you're down, do you wanna hang out again...?" she looked over at you like she was preparing for the worst.

all you gave her was a small smile. "i'd love to, yujinnie."

her entire face brightened up and then she grabbed a marker from her glove compartment. you just stared at her as she grabbed your hand and wrote her phone number down, your face heating up slowly but surely.

"text me, okay?"

"alright, yujinnie. go enjoy your party!" you said as you walked out and closed the door.

"and go enjoy your game, y/n. good night!" she called out and waited for you to go inside your house before driving off.

6 months later...

your morning could not have gotten any worse. you slept in, skipped breakfast, and it was raining like hell. the rowdy quarterbacks were basically drowned out by the storm.

which explains why you didn't notice her until you felt a heavy yet comforting jacket resting on your shoulders, followed by slender arms wrapping around your shoulders. you looked up and saw ahn yujin: star quarterback, quiet lover, and your heartthrob.

"hey," she looked down at you with an easy smile. you smiled back, although it looked a lot more like a grimace as your lips formed a thin line and your cheeks puffed up.

"i saw your messages. i brought you a croissant," she said while placing the paper bag on your desk.

"thank you, yujinnie," you said while wrapping your arms around her waist and tightening your hold on the girl. past y/n would be screaming, crying, throwing up at this, you thought to yourself. she hummed before leaving a soft kiss on the crown of your head.

"i'll go ahead, but i hope your morning gets better, love. are we still on for later?" she asked expectantly. you chuckled. "of course we are, yujinnie. go now!" you said as you playfully shoved her away. she ran off, but not without sparing you one last glance: the same one that got you hooked all those months ago.

"eh?! you're dating yujin-ah?!" you heard from beside you. your eyes went wide as sakura's unmistakeable voice finally settled in.

this'll be a long morning...

#🐻 — ky writes #girl group imagines #ahn yujin #ive imagines #ive x reader #ahn yujin x reader #ive #yujin #ive yujin #yujin x reader

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marypsue · 1 year ago

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I haven't read much of the Lost Boys comics, but from what I have read: somebody had their brain turned all the way on making the Widow Johnson a vampire, and then turned it right back off again making her and hers all into hot young-looking fetish people. This is The Lost Boys. Max got to be a vampire. The Widow Johnson should be a sweet-looking little old apple-cheeked lady with wispy white hair who bakes pies and has a little white house with red shutters absolutely packed with cottage kitsch and handmade doilies and who just loves Grandpa's taxidermy monstrosities and pinches Sam's cheek every time she sees him no matter how many times he asks her not to, and also kills people and drinks their blood.

#the lost boys #i have Thoughts and you will read them

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curtvilescomic · 6 months ago

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Heroes Comic Con Finland 2024

so while Finland has decades of comics festivals this was the first under name Comic Con and had admission prices ( Finnish festivals are free of charge)

I was there friday and saturday and while many have complained how it was arraigned I felt it was mainly positive. Especially guests of honor on comics side.

DC editor Andrea Shea, Zoe Thorogood, Lee Bermejo, Howard Chaykin, Phil Noto and Stephanie Hans. And as this is Finland, one of the Nordic countries behind left side blue wall was the duck artist Don Rosa who had lines of several hundreds. Disney Donald Duck comics are huge and nerds like me do not have to line uo to meet other comics stars. ( Nothing wrong with Disney comics, I just outgrew them almost forty years ago)

This is from Howard Chaykin vs Lee Bermejo draw battle. Did not take that many pics as I believe you should ask for consent and secondly most tomatoes are better than my phone camera.

There were oddly few comics sellers. More places selling toys and nerd kitsch. I only bought some trades and original art from Howard Chaykin.

The talks and Q&A's were great. I truly agree that Zoe Thorogood is future of comics. Lee Bermejo is the epitome of a renaissance artist gentleman. Andrea Shea is an awesome human and even better editor.

Phil Noto is a gem and a great person and would be a high point but as Said they also had Howard Chaykin.

Prince among mortals. Because I had the chance I told him he breaks the saying " never meet your heroes" Talented, smart, grumpy and snarky in the most lovable roguish way.

And yes, of course I took my Thick Black Kiss to be signed.

Hope next year will have guests of similar caliber.

#comics #Heroes Comic Con Finland #Comic Con Finland #Phil Noto #Zoe Thorogood #Lee Bermejo #Howard Chaykin #Andrea Shea #Stephanie Hans

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thatndginger · 6 months ago

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Well... it's done! I've finished polishing this little project up, and the last step is to print it off at work after I enjoy my first two-day weekend off in over a month ^.^

The Idiot's Guide to Moressau

In an attempt to stem the flood of idiotic tourists who inevitably get themselves killed, injured, or swindled every year, Portia Beckham has written a short primer for all thinking of visiting Moressau. Her goal is to lay out the most dangerous aspects of the city and what you can do to avoid them. This is not an in-depth guide to the city or any supernaturals by any means.

full transcript under the cut:

CONTENTS

PAGE ONE Sightseeing The truth behind the tourist kitsch - places to avoid at all costs, hidden gems to explore

PAGE FOUR Shapeshifters Debunking stupid werewolf myths, how to pick a shifter from a crowd, how to avoid getting your face ripped off by an angry one

PAGE SIX Vampires How to spot a mosquito, ways to keep your neck safe, popular vampire hunting grounds PAGE EIGHT Witches Best practices for dealing with magic users, apothecaries to stay away from

PAGE NINE Magic and More Magic, and what you should know about it before you visit

SIGHTSEEING IN THE SMUGGLER CITY

The Golden Rule: Use Your Brain It’s hard to resist the allure of magic, I know. But Moressau isn’t the kind of place you want to walk into unprepared. There’s a lot of rot beneath the thin veneer of civility the city’s been splashing around lately. This isn’t meant to be a tourist guide. I’m not going to sit here and pretend that your visit is going to be all sunshine and roses. The sun rarely shines in Moressau, and don’t you know roses have thorns? No. This is a survival guide to help you avoid becoming a statistic.

Avoiding the Tourist Traps I’m going to be honest: ninety percent of the stores in Old Downtown are overpriced and full of cheaply-made tourist trash. ‘But what about Heron’s Compass or The Crooked Spine?’ you may ask. Overpriced. Tourist. Traps. The Crooked Spine touts itself as the oldest bookstore in Moressau, but most of its shelves are filled with the kind of crap tourists spend hundreds of dollars on just to say they bought a piece of Moressau. Most of that crap is made overseas. If you want to hear a sanitized, all-ages-friendly account of witches in Moressau and buy ridiculously named potions that do jack-all, then by all means go to Heron’s Compass. The Maer-Rigan Coven will charge you out the nose, and probably gloat about overcharging you to your face. If that’s the kind of vibe you want, then please stay in Old Downtown and never bother the rest of us.

Shopping That Won’t Bankrupt You If you want to find some shopping that’s reasonably priced and not forced to keep up a bright and happy facade for the city’s ‘image’, then you’re going to want to check out the street markets. All local, usually handmade, and what they lack in visual appeal they more than make up for in atmosphere. The really good ones don’t advertise their existence, you just have to know. Best practice: check the Arts or Lonewood districts on a weekend evening. You’ll find something that makes the entire trip worth it. Guaranteed.

Not in the mood for a stall crawl? There are a ton of unique stores around Moressau worth your time. But like most things, you’ll have to put in a little footwork for them. My personal suggestions are The Salt Well - a secondhand store covering three stories in the Arts - and Thistle & Rue - a local artist co-op that has everything you little heart could desire.

Local Food Worth Your Time Moressau is far from a haute cuisine destination, but since you’re here you’re better off sniffing out some of the local offerings than settling for fast food. Trust me. Check out Jax’s Diner down in the industrial side of town. Open twenty-four-seven and home of the best breakfast plate you’ll ever eat in your life. Or if you want something fishy The Queen’s Catch in the Boardwalk is by far the best place to sample some of the sea’s bounty. Finally, if you’re looking for somewhere with both good booze and good food, you can’t go wrong with Island Goat or the Salt Beard Tavern. Just don’t ask to try the chef’s special at the tavern.

The Historical and Creepy Look. All of Moressau is creepy. At least that’s what I’ve been told. It’s dark and gloomy and you’re just as likely to get mauled by a creep as you are to get scared by a dumpster rat. If you don’t know what you’re doing, stick to the shit all the brochures tout. You’re less likely to die that way. There’s museums and tour guides for all of you nerds, too. That tour of Augustus Laroche’s mansion is actually pretty fun. They have paid actors and everything, but frown on self-guided tours outside of the usual routes. Just FYI.

I’ve heard of some walking tours that have popped up recently that seem safe, if you’re into that kind of thing. Word to the wise, though: avoid anything that mentions the Montrose Syndicate. They aren’t dead, and they don’t like being talked about. Whoever started that tour is going to end up at the bottom of the bay sooner or later.

Seaside Attractions (And Then Some) This is another one the brochures can handle for you. The Boardwalk and lighthouse are safe enough, and there are parts of the preserved old wharf that aren’t too bad either. And yes, they were made with old shipwreck lumber. The founders were thrifty and morbid like that. Stick to the North Docks and Downtown if you want to explore Moressau’s seaside attractions. The Old Docks aren’t the safest place anymore, day or night. If you’re up for a bit of a hike, check out the original lighthouse just north of the city. It was abandoned in favor of the new lighthouse in the early 1900's, but whatever they made it with keeps it standing, even if the rocks around it have eroded away. It’s not as fun since the city took out the bridge connecting the lighthouse to land, but you’re brave (and stupid) you can still make it across the gap. Ask me how I know.

For some modern entertainment - or modern-ish - it’s worth it to check out Saltshock, the amusement park right off the Boardwalk. It’s got some of those old wooden rollercoasters that are actually terrifying. The modern steel coasters have nothing on those rickety old things. The prices aren’t too bad, but definitely don’t bother buying any souvenirs or food there. That’s where they get you.

And since you’ll be in the area, keep an eye on the street art. I know a guy who paints some really cool murals around the Docks and Southside neighborhoods. Some of them disappear pretty quickly, since he never asks permission to decorate someone’s wall. So keep an eye out for anything signed “W S”. And keep an eye out for the rest of our local renegade artists too. You could spend hours searching out all the hidden masterpieces in this city and still miss half of them.

SHAPESHIFTERS

There’s one thing you can count on in the world, and it’s that no one will ever agree on what’s the ‘right’ thing to call a shapeshifter. But to save you some trouble, I’ll tell you the best ones. Only scientists and academics use that stupid ‘metamorph’. Most people settle for ‘were’ or ‘shifter’. If you know what kind of shifter you’re dealing with, calling them a werelion or whatever regional term you know is probably fine. Just don’t call them a beast unless you want them to act like one.

Debunking the ‘Werewolf Myth’ Because ‘shapeshifter’ is such a broad category of supernatural, there are a lot of rumors and hearsay floating around out there. Hollywood certainly doesn’t help. So let’s get some of the worst rumors put to bed once and for all.

First and foremost, weres aren’t controlled by the moon. They won’t uncontrollably transform under a full moon, or grow stronger in moonlight, or whatever else Hollywood has fed you. A transformed shifter isn’t a mindless animal or killing machine. There are some shifters who have trouble controlling their animal sides, but in those cases they’ll act like any other animal. Lassie doesn’t attack everyone in sight, does she? Most shifters are fully in control of their animal sides, and you’ll only have to worry about one attacking you if you’ve pissed them off.

Second, not every bite from a were will kill or turn you. Which is hardly comforting, since you won’t know that until after they’ve bitten you and you’ve spent about half an hour shitting yourself with panic. No one knows how it works, but a were has to want to turn you for the magic to take hold. That said, a big enough shifter doesn’t need to Bite you to kill you. So I’ll tell you again: don’t piss off a shifter.

Spotting a Shifter There’s no one-size-fits-all way to pick out a shifter in a crowd. They look like any other human. Act like any other human. Until you get close enough to notice that they have a cat’s eyes, or pointier-than-normal ears, or freckles that look more like spots. Every shifter has a ‘quirk’ courtesy of their animal form, though it’s not always immediately obvious. I know a werewolf who has fangs in human form, and another who acquired a ‘birthmark’ in the shape of their wolf side’s markings. Each quirk is unique to the shifter in possession of it.

Behavior is another one of those things that’s unique to each were. Some will take on certain behaviors of their animal form while human, while others will only act like an animal when they are an animal. They’re like humans that way. You can’t just shove them all into one box and expect them to act the same.

Finding a Shifter Shapeshifters don’t have a lot of restrictions the way some other supernaturals do. They can go where they please when they please. Except for the fact that most mundanes are still scared of them and prefer shifts stay in specific neighborhoods like Amber Wood and The Point on the north edge of the city. So if you’re trying to find some entertainment on the wilder side, start there.

The hangouts in Amber Wood tend to be the friendliest to non-shifters. Belmont’s Basement is a historic dive that’ll let anyone through the doors as long as they don’t start trouble. Then there’s Ovidia. Be warned, the music and atmosphere are quieter than a usual human club, since Ovidia caters to the sensitive senses of shifters first and foremost.

The Point has been undergoing a bit of a gentrification spell of late. The Montrose Syndicate has been expanding their turf, and with the wolves come the wealthy. Above all, steer clear of Arnaud’s Run. That’s where the top Montrose brass live, and they do not like outsiders. You’re more likely to get your throat torn out than to get a lukewarm welcome in the Run.

But if you want to try your luck, The Hunt on Starfall, or the Silver Bullet lounge are your best bets. Better be on your best behavior, though. Insulting a Montrose soldier is the last thing you’ll ever do.

Were Deterrent? There Deterrent! Silver will mildly irritate a shifter, but it won’t kill them. That whole silver bullet thing works because, it turns out, guns kill things. It doesn’t really matter what the bullet is made out of. Wolfsbane will do the exact same thing to a shifter as it does a human. Don’t you know wolfsbane is incredibly poisonous? Just touching the stuff can kill a mundane, let alone a werewolf. Don’t be the idiot who goes touching deadly flowers because of a myth.

If you want to keep a were from transforming, slapping a collar made of copper and rowan branches will do the trick. It’s how cops ‘subdue’ shifters in Moressau. Why rowan? Who knows. Same reason vampires hate it, probably. It’ll irritate the crap out of a were, like itching powder, but it doesn’t really hurt. Copper disrupts transformation magic, but only when combined with rowan, and only when directly touching a shifter’s skin. That one’s easier to explain. Magic and copper don’t mesh well. Rowan amplifies it against shifters.

VAMPIRES

If your entire reason for coming to Moressau is to meet a vampire then I have two questions for you: What the hell is wrong with you, and why bother coming here at all? Statistically, there is at least one vampire in or near where you live now. Go find them. They’ll probably jump at the chance to drink your blood, if that’s your thing. You don’t need to travel for it. The only reason you should be visiting Moressau when it comes to vampires is their nightlife.

How to Spot a Vampire Let’s get something straight right now. Vampires don’t sparkle. They aren’t incredibly pale. They aren’t indestructible. A freshly-fed vampire isn’t much different from a human, actually. They’re warm to the touch - never hot - and no paler than the average person. The only thing they’re missing is a heartbeat.

That said, there are some tell-tale signs that you’re talking to a vampire. Their fangs don’t do that stupid retraction thing like some movies claim. You’ll see them as soon as a vamp opens their mouth. A vampire’s eyes don’t glow, they aren’t blood red, they’re just eyes. But they’ll shine in the passing light of a car or a camera flash, that’s for sure. Most supernaturals have that little quirk. Lastly, vampires lack both a shadow and a reflection.

A vampire who hasn’t fed in a few days will have a chill to them like any other dead body. But a hungry vampire is faster, stronger, and much easier to piss off. And a really hungry vampire might just turn feral on you. Trust me when I say you never want to meet a feral vampire. They don’t have enough reason left to leave you alive when they’re done.

Where to Find a Vampire Typically, vampires can only come out at night. They tend to burn to a crisp in half an hour if they’re exposed to full sunlight. It’s not a pretty sight. Luckily for the vampires of Moressau, the sun only comes out about 30 days of the year, so they can be out at nearly any time of day.. Most of them keep to the night hours out of habit, being nocturnal creatures. They also tend to hang out in the Midnight Quarter. There are some vampires who’ve lived there since the city was founded, and if you’re looking for night life then the Midnight Quarter is exactly where you want to be. Don’t be surprised by what you might see in a back alley there. The city’s feeding regulations are only really enforced when the police department feels that vampires are getting a little too comfortable. There are ‘authorized’ parlors for safe feeding in multiple parts of the city, but it’s only in the Midnight Quarter that vampires feel safe enough to feed out in the open.

Not all vampire parlors and clubs are dangerous. Just some of them. Club Nomad caters primarily to vampires, but they’ll welcome anyone looking for a night out. The bouncers there are better than most about keeping an eye out for trouble. If you want exclusivity, then L’Sourire en Sang run by the Société de Keres is as old and exclusive as you can get. They’re pretty strict about who they let in - mundane and vampire both - but I’ve heard that almost every human visitor leaves alive. Or occasionally undead.

Last but not least, there’s Cameo. It hasn’t been around very long, but it’s already pissed off all the old and moldy vampires in the city so it has my vote of confidence. I heard it’s run by a new coalition in town called the Strix Assembly, and they’re very concerned about keeping their bloodbags alive and well. Pampered, even. They don’t mind the occasional shifter drifting through, either.

Finding Good Mosquito Repellent Vampires might be some of the deadliest supernaturals out there, but there are some tried and true ways to keep them off your neck.

First, sunlight. We’ve covered this. Keep up.

Second, rowan wood. I don’t know what it is about rowan specifically, but it’ll burn any vampire who touches it. They hate the smell of it too, if you’re in the market for new cologne.

Vampires have an aversion to garlic, but it’s not going to stop a determined one. Pepper spray is useful if you can make a quick getaway. Don’t bother with religious iconography or silver unless you want to be laughed at before you die.

And finally... most vampires are just like everyone else. Common sense and a nice attitude will go a long way. If you wouldn’t go around insulting Joe Schmoe, don’t go around insulting a vampire just because you can, either.

WITCHES

Before you go getting all sad because I’m telling you just how dangerous all the ‘fun‘ parts of Moressau are, just let me finish. Because as scary as shapeshifters and vampires can be, witches are so much worse. You’ll never a know a witch is standing in front of you. Not until you piss them off and they curse you for it. At least a vampire has the courtesy to show their fangs before they fuck you up.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let me debunk some more stereotypes about witches. Some of them wear pointy hats, but so do a lot of mundanes. You can’t judge someone by their aesthetic. Even if it’s a stupid one. If they are actively channeling magic, a witch’s eyes will glow. It’s a soft light, like a glowstick. There’s no specific glow color for ‘evil’ witches, but the color is unique to each individual. A witch also tends to smell like the air before a storm when casting. Petrichor, some call it. That’s the smell of magic in general. Depending on how much magic is used, the smell can linger for a while too. But it’s really weird to go around sniffing people, FYI.

Finding a Good Witch Shop Most witch-run businesses in Moressau prefer to call themselves apothecaries or mysticaries. ‘Magic Shop’ sounds like a place full of gag gifts and card tricks. The good apothecaries are usually run by a single person or small coven. Anything with multiple locations or run by the Maer-Rigan Coven is going to charge you out the nose for something even an infanct could mix up. Maer-Rigan runs Heron’s Compass and Satyr’s Step in the Old Downtown, so steer clear of those. It’s better to avoid Hag’s Eye Apothecary and Honey & Sage while you’re at it, too. They aren’t Maer-Rigan run, but they’re way too pricey and their products are weak.

If you want a really good mysticary shop, check out Whitehart Apothecary near the Old Docks. Their prices are fair, and the witches who run it are a riot. They’ll even check you for errant curses, if you ask nicely. Breaking curses will cost you, though. Some other options are Lazy Gull and Black Fin & Feather, both found near the Boardwalk. Black Fin & Feather is perfect for all you goth-y, creepy folk. And Lazy Gull recently opened a coffee bar, so you can get your enchanted drinks on-the-go. Just make sure to tip well, or they might add something unpleasant in there too.

MAGIC AND MORE

There’s one thing I can say about Moressau that is unequivocally positive: it really is the most magical place in America. And I mean that literally. There may be other places with a longer history of magic use, but Moressau was built and rebuilt with the help of magic, and you can feel it. The city is alive with it. Be good to the city, and the city will be good to you. That’s our motto. That’s why most of us still stick around, even with the constant rain and cold. And the danger. We love this city. And it loves us back.

Now that I‘ve gotten a little sappy, let’s get back to business. Most of the newer parts of the city - really anything less than 50 years old - haven’t had time for the city’s magic to sink in. So if you’re scared of the idea that a city is alive, stick to them. They aren’t really alive yet. The oldest parts like the Boardwalk and Old Downtown are where you can feel the magic heartbeat of Moressau. You’ve got to stand still, and tune out the city noise, and then you can feel it. But since this is Moressau, standing in the middle of a busy public area and spacing out is dangerous, so bring a buddy if you want to try this.

Never, ever go below the city streets. It might sound cool to check out the ‘Buried City’, but the magic down there is different. Older. Woven into the ground by smugglers and people who didn’t want to be found. It doesn’t matter how well you’ve prepared, or how good your sense of direction is. Ten minutes down there and you won’t know up from down. There are people who manage to live down there, but don’t ask me how they do it. You probably don’t want to meet them, either.

If you’re a magic user, make sure you’re prepared for the side effects magic tends to experience here. I’ve been told magic has a stronger will in Moressau and takes more effort to channel. It also tends to take on a mind of its own and react in ways you wouldn’t expect. It’s nothing off-the-walls crazy, but it’s definitely something to keep in mind. Or else your protection spell might become a ‘knock everyone three feet back if they dare touch you’ spell. It’s only funny for the first twenty minutes.

Shapeshifter taglist: @sunset-a-story @touloserlautrec

#wip: shapeshifter #The Idiot's Guide to Moressau #lots of fun little tidbits and easter eggs in here #this was fun

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babycatlix · 2 days ago

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Hi hi! 19 and 39 for the ask game

hi lovely tsu 🩵

19. your all time favorite kpop songs?

hmmm... there's a lot... and i want to remind everyone that i have been into kpop for over 15 years lol

I AM THE BEST – 2ne1

Haru Haru – BigBang

Password 486 – Younha

CROOKED – GDragon

Don't Wanna Cry – Seventeen

As If It's Your Last – BlackPink

Thunderous – Stray Kids

Lonely St. – Stray Kids

SUPERBOARD – Stray Kids

QUEENCARD – (G)I-dle

Antifragile – Le Sserafim

Wannabe – ITZY

Spring Day – BTS

Oh Nana – KARD

Catallena – Orange Caramel

okay, that's 15 and i should stop there before it gets longer but i think this really shows how long i've been into kpop.

39. a song no one seems to like but you?

hmm... i'm not sure i'm the best person to ask since i'm pretty picky already and i don't really pay attention to what others like and don't like if i don't interact with them a lot IRL... so i guess... in my friend group, Kitsch by IVE has recently grown on me and my friend group doesn't like it 😂

send me some kpop asks!

#ask #tsu 🍃#ask game

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planefood · 11 months ago

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hi. i might be going crazy but if i'm not and i recall correctly; a couple months back or so you made a post talking about why you chose the city you did for your ocs and why it didn't take place in america. as a non american who fell into the weirdly common thing of making ocs that are american i really resonated with that post, i've been looking around for it and i can't find it. so i wanted to ask if you deleted it? it's 100% fine if you did i get it. i just want to know if its gone or i should keep looking around for it because of infamous tumblr search broken. thanks :-)

Okay this is tough because my tumblr has a tendency to just, hide posts of mine in the archive or tags (grrr) but I also delete posts a lot if I feel like I was overly emotional in them or if its just stupid tagging garbage but I might've deleted it because I wrote that when I was really upset, I know a lot of people related to it though so i'm really sorry to you guys! I might rewrite it more succinctly if I have the energy but the point in that old post still stands I suppose Sometimes I worry I come across as too patriotic or even, god forbid... "kiwiana" kitsch which would be a NIGHTMARE for me even if most of my followers wouldn't notice something like that. I also don't wanna give off the impression that my work is only for a small population or that I "hate americans" if I don't word it well enough. I probably only feel an obligation to write how I do because I fought so hard feeling recognised for my background after I moved here that feeling it happen again when I speak to people outside of NZ stresses me out. I'm glad other people resonated with it! But me getting so emotional over it isn't what I'd call a typical reaction idk. Really its more out of frustration, I feel like I'll never truly feel at home in any part of the world for multiple reasons, somewhere where I can feel comfortable relating to people just because we're from the same area but that's not really true. I was an outsider in Japan and I felt like an outsider living here. Moving to a bigger city didn't provide me much comfort as I still feel like I'm not apart of the "in group". I know people who haven't even moved countries like me will probably feel this (esp if you follow me cause no regular person would follow me tbh) thats the frustration I try to capture with my writing that I hope more people to can attach to than just "this is Aotearoa bitch!!!!!!!!!". I feel love and also a lot of rage for this country. My stories are less of a love letter for it and just auto biographical, some parts are cozy and nice but a lot is pretty rough and stressful. There's still the kid in me screaming "I WANT TO GO HOME!" all the time while I live here, back then "home" would've just been back in Japan but now I don't really know what that "home" is. I find solice in my characters trying to figure that out too

#ask #my stories rarely feel like they capture authentic nz to me sometimes but idek what that is really #I was gonna go on a rant about how much I hated this country growing up because of how ppl treated me + everything being different #but that can be for another day

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alister312 · 10 months ago

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i'd like to hear your romantic hcs for gregstophe!

i feel like i got an ask about this similar topic once before but i am always delighted to answer nonetheless so!! thank you anon 🥰 here’s a few i personally like a lot:

pet names!! once they start dating i do very much see them as both being big pet name people. for Gregory I think it comes naturally since i feel british people are often portrayed as calling people by a pet name (dear, love, etc.), so maybe he’d even occasionally use them for Christophe before they date. after, though, he certainly turns up the affection every time he uses them. Christophe takes a bit more time, but once he starts, it’s constant.

sort of along the lines of pet names, I think they use French when they want to be extra romantic! the same way some extra lovey-dovey couples will do babytalk with one another, i think Gregory and Christophe would speak in French. they ofc use it for normal everyday talk too sometimes, but if they want to lovingly tease the other or excessively compliment/gush about each other, they’d switch over to French.

LETTERS– this is one of my FAVORITE headcanons about them, the idea that they write to each other a lot. I oscillate on whether or not I like the idea of them growing up together or meeting briefly as kids but staying in touch as they get older… ofc letter writing works more for the latter. Gregory would be on point with his letter-writing game: perfectly neat handwriting, sturdy ideal letter paper, very crisp pristine envelopes. Christophe, on the other hand, would be the kinda guy who cuts off the front of a Kraft mac n cheese box, sticks a stamp on it, and calls it a postcard. he still writes just as meaningful and romantic things as Gregory does and honestly Gregory loves the kitsch of it (he saves every one ofc) so it all works out.

no matter what profession they end up having, i think both of them are prone to getting stressed and overworking, so they start giving one another massages whenever it gets really bad. sometimes it’s a light, surface level thing, like if Gregory’s shoulders are all hunched up and Christophe goes over and rubs them with his hands to get him to relax. it can also be more in-depth, like if Christophe’s whole body is sore from digging so Gregory has him lie on the couch and he really works him with his elbows. I don’t think either of them are certified masseurs or have any training at all, but they know one another well enough that they can give fantastic massages.

I think whenever they bought their first piece of furniture as a couple (probably a bed frame and corresponding mattress), Christophe carved their initials into the wood of it. Gregory was absolutely NOT thrilled about this at first, but Christophe was like “But it’s the first thing that’s ours, we should mark it”. Gregory was still miffed about the vandalism, but he eventually got very attached to the idea of the carving as an important memento of their relationship

#THANKS AGAIN ANON! hope I don’t sound like a broken record with some of these but I feel strongly about what I love and will come back to it #someday if my writing burn out lessens and I finish my other gregstophe fic projects I’d love to write an epistolary fic for them #south park #sp headcanons #gregstophe #gregory of yardale #christophe delorne

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siren-of-agony · 10 months ago

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Still not over that awesome possessive whumper piece of yours so here's another one . A whumper has let their whumpee be free for some time for whatever reason , but oh no they aren't able to reach them . They barge into whumpee's house and no sign of whumpee. Did another whumper take them perhaps 👀👀👀

Hi! It’s been 2 years since I got this request and I have now accepted that I will never actually write it-write it. But I need you to know that back when I got this ask, I spent multiple hours being incredibly unhinged w my love @for-the-love-of-angst and outlined this whole thing. So I‘m very sorry you’ll never get the full thing, here is what we had planned, a bit cleaned up

There are honestly no warnings because this is a literal Hallmark movie. Well, maybe pet whump if you squint very hard?

A Christmas Reunion

Establishing shot. A McMansion, absolutely decked out in kitsch christmas decoration. Snow is drifting lazily in front of a big window we zoom in toward. Through it, we enter a large living room, warm and cozy, with large couches in a u-formation. On the sides sit people of every age, including some children. On the middle couch, an old couple, maybe in their seventies, close together, holding hands, smiling at their family. At their feet, a person not much younger, their hands and ankles bound in what looks like Christmas wreaths. They seem annoyed. Child 1: Grandpa, Grandpa, will you tell us the story again? Of how Cinnamon saved Christmas and this family?

Grandpa Henry: Oh but I’ve told that every year, isn’t it getting boring?

Grandma Violet: I was there and I still want to hear it again! It’s a great story, Henry, love, let's not break tradition!

GH: All right, fine, fine. There was a time when my Violet and I didn’t get along quite as well as we do now-adays. We had been married for a few years, but we were fighting so often. We had made the decision to maybe spend some time apart, but couldn’t quite agree who our lovely Cinnamon would spend their time with.

We focus on GH free hand, reaching towards the hair of the person sitting in front of him. We see Cinnamon’s hair being pet, the annoyed expression on their face. A dreamlike rippling filter across the picture. We are entering a

FLASHBACK Another, slightly smaller McMansion. Movers are carrying boxes and furniture outside. A car drives up, parks haphazardly, and a Young Henry gets out, in a business suit, with a business bag, business hair. We understand: YH works too much and is never home. He is important in the field of business.

He runs towards the house and stops one of the movers.

YH: What are you doing in my house? With my furniture?

Mover: Your ex-wife gave us the official court documents. You should have gotten them, too. Didn’t your lawyer contact you to inform you we’d come over today?

YH curses. His lawyer had tried to call him, but he’d been too busy doing business.

YH enters his house. He ignores his stuff being carried out, making his way directly to a door with a small window, but he starts to unlock it without looking through. With a start, he realizes the door is unlocked already. He steps through the door. We see a nice room, cozily decorated. The big window has no unlocking mechanism. From the inside, the door has no handle, only a keyhole. YH looks around frantically. The room is empty. He unlocks his phone and calls somebody.

YH: Violet, you bitch! Where’s Cinnamon?

YV: Don’t talk to me like that! What do you mean?

YH: Where. Is. Cinnamon. I bought you another house, I gave you money, I gave you all my furniture. I get to keep Cinnamon! The court agreed!

YV: But I didn’t agree! And anyway, I don’t have Cinnamon! Are you telling me you already lost our precious darling? I told you you spent too much time at work to care for them!

YH: If you don’t have them, where are they? Their room is empty!

YV: You’re useless. I’m coming over. Search through Cinnamons room, maybe they’re just hiding. They must have gotten scared with all these changes.

YV hangs up. YH starts checking behind the curtains, under furniture. On the bed, almost covered by a pillow, he finds a note. He reads it out, as if he knows he’s in a movie and people might not be watching the screen

YH: ‘You’ve ruined my business deal with your smart business decisions and your wife’s gossiping revealing my affair. From the published court proceedings I know what you fought most about and I’ve decided to take it and destroy it, just how you destroyed my life. Getting them in that box wasn’t easy, but carrying it out, dressed as a mover. I will fit right in. You will never see your precious Cinnamon again.’

YH curses again, running to the door, where he sees YV already running towards him

[Here we enter the part I had never fully planned out, but imagine a full on heist movie with this divorced couple trying to rescue their pet from a sadistic Whumper and falling in love with each other all over again.]

They stand back in their McMansion, empty except for the twig of mistletoe above them, a young Cinnamon still bound and gagged and slightly bloody sitting on the floor between them. They kiss passionately. The camera pans down to YC’s face. We recognize the annoyed expression. Ripple effect - FLASHBACK ENDS

We’re back in the living room from the first scene

GH: And that’s how we saved Cinnamon and Cinnamon saved us!

Old Cinnamon: I hate you all.

GV: It did break our heart, of course, when we told Cinnamon they could wish for anything they wanted for surviving such an ordeal, and instead of maybe a cozier couch, they wanted a bit more freedom, but who are we to go back on our word.

OC: I told you I wanted you to leave me the fuck alone.

GH: And we do, almost always, do we not! We understand that even family spends some time apart, but the holidays are a time to get together!

OC: You really don’t need to abduct me every year, though. Do you know how embarrassing it is if someone asks you to come over for Christmas and you have to be like “Nah, I’m going to get abducted again.”

Everyone laughs heartily. Cinnamon is struggling against their bonds.

OC: Also, how often do I have to tell you that I go by Monroe now?

GV: Oh sweetheart, you'll always be our little Cinnamon. Now stop struggling against, you'll just hurt yourself again, and you'll have to cut the roast later!

OC: I’ll cut you.

GV: Cinnamon, Christmas is the holiday of LOVE!

OC: That’s Valentine’s day, you dumb fuck.

The camera starts moving back, through the window we first entered through. We exit the McMansion, still shining in warm light, vague Christmas conversation audio going on. The snow falls heavier. The last shot is a person from behind, we see their gray hair and recognize the sadistic Whumpers favourite Christmas sweater. In their hand, a knife

~FIN~

#whump #whump prompt #whump writing #whump request #whumblr #considering i was like oh no i never finished this i am aware i wrote a lot :D #well consider this an apology for it taking literally two years #also i really don't know if this even counts even remotely as whump but consider this #it brought me joy to write so i think it should count #also vee looking through our old chat for this made me laugh so much #and than you again for the names and the help back then #like at least half of the ideas in this come from vee including that absolute slapper of cinnamon's last line #that's valentine's day you dumb fuck still makes me giggle

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byrdstrolls · 2 months ago

Text

Mysteries Are Like Onions Part Three

[Part One Here! Part Two Here!]

Back in his hometown in Umbra, the only library in town was sparsely staffed. It opened sporadically with no real rhyme or reason, and so Barely was always keenly aware how much he must make every second count. He would scour the shelves for books, picking up rare non-fiction and fantasy and memoirs from in between long rows of farmers almanacs and suspicious black magic tomes. There were two murder mysteries available there, that he read religiously, checking them out pretty much monthly, waiting a couple weeks to try and forget as much of them as he could before reading them all over again. They were And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, and Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of Baskerville by Arthur Conan Doyle. Barely knew them so well, if another troll happened to be reading them, he could peek over their shoulder and tell them precisely what would happen on the next page without looking. Which was an impressive feat of memorization, but something Barely’s brother found deeply annoying. Right now, those two books resided at the bottom of the child’s huge backpack, fees be damned.

“Come on Miss” Barely pleads. “We’ve got hours till the train comes. Let me just poke around” The detective says, lingering by the door of Creekturns Library.

The sign atop the small little building illustrated a trout with a pair of glasses reading a book. These kinds of fish themed nick-nacks seemed to be all over the town, in a manner some might find kitsch and tacky but both Barely and Miss Laryan found charming.

“Well” Miss Laryan sighs. “I suppose. I don’t know if you’ll find anything in here, darling.” She says, not wanting to get his hopes up, but willing to concede.

“There’s gotta be some way,” He says. “To narrow things down.”

“You might be more likely to find that in town, Barely” She says.

“I think we should steer clear of DunnerMart.” The child says, looking at the glow of the building's sign through the window.

“Yes, but they have this lovely little shop down the way” She sighs. “That makes the best damn fish sandwich this side of the river.”

“Well,” Barely pauses. “If you lend me your library card, you could go and grab one for both of us” He offers.

“Of course” She smiles, and then frowns. “...It was in my wallet” She recalls, unfortunately.

“It’s probably not hard to sign up, Miss” He corrects.

“Alright, Barely” She says. “If you say so. Stay safe, ya hear?” She says, patting his head fondly before she leaves. The young man straightens out his hair, before skipping up to the desk.

“Excuse me Mister” He says. “Could I sign up for a library card?”

“Absolutely” The man says, lowering the tome in his hands. Barely is caught off guard by his jarring northern accent. He was well accustomed to the quick, sharp syllables of the alternian north from the mouths of fleet officials and TV characters, but not so used to them falling so clunkenly from the mouth of a troll with a shade of rust no warmer than his own.

“Name?” The librarian asks.

“Barely” He replies. “Say, what’s your name, Mister, where ya from?”

He chuckles slightly. “I get that a lot.” He admits. “I’m Calcul, I flew all the way down here from Alphanette. Are you an um… resident of the tri-town-municipality?” He asks, looking through papers.

Barely frowns. “No…” He admits.

“You sure? Shercattle and Baskertop count too, Barely.” The librarian replies.

“No, Mister Calcul.” he sighs. “I’m from even south-er than that. Can I still check out books?”

“I’m afraid not,” The librarian says. “Fleet rules, library is for the townspeople. You can hang around and read for a bit, if you like, tho.”

Barely is about to argue, but then, realizes he couldn’t have checked out books anyways, if he was gonna get on that train by dayfall.

“Okay” he says. “Do you have anything on industrial cow farming? Illnesses, chemicals and processes used in dairy factories? Mister, do you have a newspaper archive? Does it go back half a sweep?”

“Well, kind of,” Calcul says, picking some books off the shelf. “Cow stuff’s over here- We have old newspapers but only on the microfilm machines. Heh, probably should have been updated a while ago.”

“Thank you, Mister Calcul,” Says Barely, grasping the tall stack of books he’s been handed, and, glancing at the apparent complexity of some of them, he adds, “could I also get a dictionary?” In case he needed to look up words.

“Of course” Says Calcul, putting one last book on his stack, and the young man trots over to a nearby table.

The teenager goes to open the first book, and then pauses.

“Have you lived here long, Mister?” He asks.

“Moved out with my kismesis a perigee ago” He shrugs. “So I don’t know if I could say that.”

The young man flips through his notepad. A few key questions could unravel everything. He just had to pick the right ones to ask. Barely inhales, deciding to pick at a thread long left hanging.

“Have you met the Mayor?” he asks.

“Oh, many times” Calcul shrugs. “Mr. Deceil seems very hands on, friendly. He’s always around. He told me I’m too polite.” He laughs. “Honestly, I don’t think he’s all too different from the royal’s I’ve met up north.” He describes.

“How so?” Barely asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“You might have noticed this yourself, little man.” He says, to the other rust. “But a lot of highbloods and fleetfolk seem so weirdly invested in pretending to be from humble beginnings? You hear it from the Mayor's mouth he’s a local, had some ranch property in Baskertop for thirty some sweeps. But-” Calcul pauses. “I don’t think he ever worked it. And you didn’t hear this from me-” He starts, the way many polite minded southern trolls qualify their gossiping- perhaps the city boy had learned something in his months here after all-

“But I saw him take a call from his boss once. All ducked away in an alleyway. And that sweet as honey southern accent dropped like a dime. He was all ‘you guys’ and ‘are not’. He can’t have been raised anywhere south of Tes Roven, I promise you.”

“I see,” Barely says, turning the necklace in his teeth. This information didn’t help him much except for giving him a general dislike of the Mayor he had never met. Which solidified his hunch he was involved somehow. There was something fishy about that ranch, he was sure of it. And, something he had noted on his pad all the way back in Baskertop, an elected official sure seemed like the kind of troll who’d have an extra key to a municipal office.

“Well, thank you kindly Mister Calcul” He replies with a nod, picking up his book and starting it.

There is a creak as Miss Laryan quietly enters the library door, walking over to sit next to him. She sees the child is already deep in thought, and elects not to address him, simply sitting down and setting a sandwich beside him. Independently, she begins to work on her crossword. It’s a long moment before Barely even seems to notice there is a sandwich next to him, with how absorbed he gets. Reading seems to take an amount of his attention you’d expect from a boy genius. Finally, nearly an hour later, as Barely jots down notes from the book on his pad, his stomach reminds him of its woes and he bites into the sandwich. It was beef and something, ever so slightly cold.

“Okay” says Miss Laryan. “I really don’t mean to bother you dear, but I’m stumped. Fifth letter e, second letter i, goliath ______, an arachnid the size of a dinner plate.”

“A goliath birdeater” Barely answers, a strange awareness dawning on his face, he looks straight forward, and then at his food.

“Weren’t you gonna get us fish sandwiches, Miss Laryan?” He says slowly.

“Yes- but, oh! Strangest thing. They were all out. Wasn’t even on the menu. Creekturn- outta fish! Will oinkbeasts fly next? There really is a curse about.”

“Haven’t eaten a lot of fish since I moved here” Calcul shrugs. “Bummed me out too. I was looking forward to it. I asked around, and every troll said-”

“Let me guess,” Barely says slowly. “The fish started disappearing. A half sweep ago.”

The librarian frowns, unsettled by the child completing his sentence for him.

“Yeah” He stumbles. “No one knows why. Ton of fisheries went out of business. A lot of people moving south to work at-”

Barely is staring intently at the tail map given to him by Miss Laryan two nights ago.

“The dairy factory” Barely interrupts, looking down at the rail map. Trailing his finger down the river. Too convenient, too convenient livestock illnesses by far. He glances at his notes, frantically looking through them for a moment, before losing steam and letting out a frustrated noise.

“Augh!” he exclaims. “I’m so close. I’m so close, Miss!” he insists.

“Barely” She says, quietly but sternly. “Don’t make a scene.”

“So close to what?” Calcul asks curiously.

“Solvin’ a case” Barely huffs, and then adds, sitting back down. “I’m a detective.”

“Here” Miss Laryan says, trying to distract the upset child. “Help me out, Barely” She says, pointing at her crossword. “Third letter n, fourth letter s- a legal term for a partnership in crime”

“I ain’t got time for a crossword! Miss Laryan” he huffs.

“Calm down, Barely” She pleads. “Think about it.”

He fumes silently for another moment, and then caves.

“‘Conspiracy’ Miss” He says quietly.

“What were you asking all those questions about the mayor for- were those also for the case? I was just gossiping, kid, I don’t know if I’d repeat any of that in a court of law” Calcul warns.

There's something staring him right in the face here. Right under his nose. He was slippin pieces from a jenga tower. He just had to set his hands on a load bearing brick and it would all come crumbling down. Think, Barely, Think.

“What’s Mayor Dunner got to do with all this?” Miss Laryan says confusedly, so casually, as if she didn’t even notice the bomb she’s placed on the floor.

“Excuse me” Barely squeak slowly. “Could you repeat that?”

“I just asked” She frowns. “What Mayor Dunner’s got to do with all of it, darlin, I know you aint fonda him since he called the sheriff on ya-”

“Dunner” The child says, skipping past the entire end of her sentence. “IS the MAYOR? He’s the mayor AND the CEO of DunnerMart?!!” He exclaims. And then points to Calcul. “You called him Deciel!”

“Trolls have two names, kid” Calcul shrugs. “That’s his last one.”

“You know how fleet folk always say” Laryan shrugs, still not seeming to understand the significance of this detail to Barely. “Businessman mayor’s are good for the economy an’ all”

“WHY” The rust says through gritted teeth. “Did no one tell me this!!”

“Well, we figured it obvious, Barely, everybody knows Dunner” Laryan defends.

“I don’t” Barely snaps, staring down at his notes, the town map, the industrial farming report, as pieces begin to snap together at an alarming rate. He pauses, and rushes over to the microfilm processor, flipping through the slides from a sweep ago.

Click, the machine sounds.

Local Landowner Shirli Goin On Big Holiday! Won’t Say Where She Got The Money, the headline reads.

Click, Barely flips the page again.

New Dairy Factory Finishes Construction!

Click

New Mayor Appointed- Baskertop Landowner!

Click

Fleetrail Takes Cattle Lands

Click

Where Have all the Fish Gone?

Suddenly, the child steps back from the old catalog machine as if it burned his hand.

“I have to tell someone” he squeaks, stumbling backwards out of the library, into the town square.

“Barely!” Miss Laryan calls, hurrying over. “Can you clue the rest of us in here?”

“It was DUNNER” The child snaps. “It was ALL Dunner!” He exclaims, the trolls going about their day in the square pausing at this sudden and loud exclamation.

“Dunner is fleet! Dunner BUILT the Fleetrail! Dunner bought the ranch!” Barely insists, lifting his papers. “So he could control the cowpokes- after he destroyed their lands- so he could make ‘em only sell to his DAIRY FACTORY” He accuses, running out of breath, not seeming to notice nor care about the small crowd pausing to listen.

“His factory on the river- that polluted the river!” He asserts. Holding up the rail map. “That killed the other cows, so every farmer in Shercattle had to work for him! His factory that polluted the river- That killed the fish” He snaps, and it is this accusation in particular that draws a sharp silence from the people of Creekturn.

“That had everyone in Creekturn” Barely growls. “Switching to Dunner Beef!” He claims, lifting up the wrapping paper label of his sandwich. The crowd is murmuring amongst themselves, their expressions turning.

“He broke the whole system” Barely says, not even seeming to notice how quiet the crowd has gotten, how wide eyed. “And he wants Baskertop- AND Shercattle- AND Creekturn- to PAY HIM to keep breakin’ it!” He finishes, but then the child freezes, some ancient instinct tracing the audience’s gaze to behind him, where Dunner has walked out of the sheriff's office, two gunslingers dragging a handcuffed Damial towards the county jail.

“Now, don’t get ahead of yourself, son,” Dunner says softly, smiling like a fox does to a rabbit. “Those are some wild accusations to be screaming in the square, Barely”

The young rust backs up towards the distrustful looking crowd.

“Prove him wrong, Mayor!” shouts a random fisherman, “I wanna hear what the lil’ fella has to say!” He accuses, distrustingly. Dunner sighs.

“Now, gentleman” He huffs. “This pupa’s too young to know about correlation and causation and all that- just because a great number of things happen at the same time don’t mean they’re all related”

He’s good with a crowd, Barely realizes, with a sinking pusher, noticing some trolls throwing doubtful glances at each other. He was a liar and cheat and a scoundrel but he talked confidently and calmly.

“I can assure you,” Dunner says. “There is no pollution from my factory- why, if there was, don’t you think trolls would be gettin’ sick? Don’t our water also come from the river?” He points out.

“The filtration standards” Barely counters, flipping through his papers furiously. “Are different for livestock then they are people- the plumping system processes the-”

“And even if there was,” Dunner interrupts him. “It was an honest to g-d accident I didn’t notice nor foresee- and can be quickly rectified”

‘Except it wasn’t!” Barely snaps. “I’ve been reading about industrial farming! There ain’t nothin’ comes out a dairy bottlin’ factory that should be toxic enough to kill off an entire cow and fish population! It HAD to be deliberate-”

“Miss Laryan” Dunner interrupts again. “Could you keep that young man under control- Ladies and Gentlemen. There ain’t nothin’ I’ve done in these towns that couldn’t be explained away by good natured naiv-ete and errors I could promptly fix! Who even is that boy, really? Some rusty from outta town- who's to know if he can be trusted. Me, I’ve never lied to y’all-”

“But you have” Barely hisses. A moment of pure clarity flashing through his mind like a bullet.

Dunner pauses. “I don’t know whatever you could be referrin’ too, son” He growls.

“Mister Dunner,” The rustblood says. “Could ya empty your pockets?”

The seadweller pauses.

“Whatever for?” He laughs.

“Bear with me,” The child says.

“I’ll do no such thing” Dunner hisses, turning back towards the sheriff’s office, but he is halted by a townsperson, who, seeming to have taken Barely’s side, frisks him, pulling the contents of the Mayor’s pockets into her hand.

“My friend Miss Laryan is a municipal clerk in Baskertop” Barely begins, trying to catch up the crowd. Two could play at this game of livening things up for an audience. “She had some important papers in her wallet two days ago,” He continues. “Ones that some troll with an official key tore apart a municipal office to find. An ol’ land sale receipt. This wallet was stolen from her, when she fainted at a train station. I saw you that very night, Mayor Dunner.” The child says, taking a step towards him. “When Miss Laryan had fainted a second time- and you said somethin’ funny' to me when you first saw us, Mayor Dunner. You said, ‘she havin’ one of those again’? Like somehow” He posits. “You knew about the first faintin’, which Miss Laryan hadn’t told nobody about-”

“She faints all the time!” Dunner snaps. “Nervous composure- I only meant she had a condition-”

“You also said” The detective insists. “‘She must be having a hell of a night- how is that not specific to the night it occurred-”

“Listen,” Dunner insists to the townspeople. “I don’t mean to brag, really, but you’re all well aware I got a little more money than most- what cause would a guy like me have to pick a midbloods pocket- it’s ludicrous-”

“I don’t know, Mister Mayor” Barely says, pushing aside Dunner’s phone and a pack of gum in the frisking troll's hand aside to pick out a teal leather wallet, and show it to the crowd. “How ‘bout we find out?”

“Now folks- what’s this gotta do with anything!” Dunner says, seeming to slip out of his accent in his anger, not helping his case. He makes a lunge for the kid and the wallet, but is held back.

Barely pulls out two folded up pieces of paper out of the wallet, pausing to unfold them and read their contents. The crowd waits on bated breath. They are exactly what Barely expected them to be. There is crashing from the Sheriffs office, as the handcuffed Damial seems to have taken this opportunity to fight the sheriff’s escorting him.

“A request to make public” The young rust reads, holding up the first paper. “The record of the ownership of Redgrass Ranch,”

“Filed by one Vekeso Endoze.” He finishes.

“...”

It’s nice, sometimes, to believe that people care about each other more than they let on. It’s even nicer to be proven right.

The child turns to the fushia. “I reckon” He says, “Vekeso was never fonda you, was he Mister Mayor?” Barely says, hearing the sounds of the fight escalating in the sheriff's office.

“I bet he didn’t like you tellin’ him he couldn’t sell to Mister Damial no more. An’ he started thinkin- just like I did- you know, for all Dunner’s hey sons and drawled rs and boots with the spurs- I don’t think I’ve actually SEEN Mayor Dunner ‘round Baskertop! Or Shercattle! Or Creekturn before- and if you don’t mind, I’d like to see his papers on supposedly ownin’ this ranch for thirty sweeps- and that made you nervous, didn’t it, Mister Mayor.” The child glares.

“Because you knew this paper said loud n clear-” Barely says, switching to the next paper. “Redgrass Ranch was only purchased by you a half sweep ago. You’re a stranger. You moved in the same time you built the Fleetrail, to force the cowpokes to rent that land. The same time you built the dairy factory, to funnel the cattle and poison the river. Because you couldn’t stand any of these trolls havin’ a livelihood that had nothin’ to do with you. And you thought they’d turn on you” He accuses. “If they ever had an inkling that you weren’t ona them”

Barely says, sealing the nails in the coffin. He didn’t have solid proof for a lotta things- but he had one bit of evidence, that this seadweller, at the very least, had egregiously lied to their faces, and had tried desperately to cover up his lie. All else will come crumbling down after. Once trust is gone. Funny thing is, a thing like this probably wouldn’t have undone Dunner just standing on his own. He maybe coulda talked his way out of it, he coulda pushed it off as a misrememberance or error, had Vekeso actually gotten the thing public. But like ouroboros swallowing his tail, it was Dunner and his own rampant paranoia that was his own undoing. His desperation to hide this weak bit of evidence against him proved his guilt more than the paper alone ever could.

Sometimes a troll will point a finger anywhere but inward at others, just because they know how much they have to hide. And they assume everyone else around this thinks this same, selfish way they do. These people’s worst fear is always that they'll start gettin treated the way they treat other people.

“Now, Folks” Dunner stumbles, lifting his hands in surrender as if some part of him knows all is lost. He says something else, but it’s drowned out as the crowd’s mutters are starting to turn to shouts and accusations and threats. The fushia takes a few steps back, only to run directly into a bloodstained Damial, having fought his way away from the two sheriffs and broken outta those cuffs with sheer force. Judging by his expression, the purple had heard enough of the conversation to understand. Miss Laryan pales in the commotion, rushing forward and making a running grab for Barely, picking him up and rushing him away just as weapons start to be drawn and the mob descends into chaos. She stashes the child away, ironically, inside DunnerMart.

“Barely you stay right here” She insists. “You stay right here and still and quiet and hide if anybody comes in, ya hear?” She says, frantically, handing him her phone. “Here- it’s got games on it. Don’t look outside Barely, it’ll do ya no good.” She says, and then rushes back out into the town square.

Gone through the proper channels of fleet law, a crime like Dunner’s would be hit with a fine at most, in a trial that takes months and gives him plenty of time to sort out his paperwork enough to get out nearly scot free. But he is not in proper court. The disenfranchised fishermen of Creekturn have taken justice in their own uniquely alternian way that seems to involve a lot of Dunner screaming and thuds of metal and stone and flesh.

Barely doesn’t hear a bit of it over the pleasant chimes of Miss Laryan’s computer phone as he plays tetris facing away from the window. Weeks later, investigations would roll through. New Sheriffs would fly in looking for someone to cull for all of it. Asking who killed Dunner and those two sheriffs. But in some stubborn prideful pact of the people of the municipality, no one would say a word to them. No one from Creekturn, or Shercattle, or Baskertop. ‘I don’t recall’ they’d say. ‘Dont remember seein anyone’. And the piles of leads would dry up so quickly the fleet wouldn’t even be able to point a finger.

Because not one of the trolls there would think for a moment of sellin out their neighbor- not for the man who literally poisoned their water supply. But sometimes, at Lars, on late nights when some of the people who had been in the crowd had too many- they’d come to a proud agreement amongst themselves that the killin’ blow had been Damial. Many who had seen him despairing in the streets for months were inclined to agree that he had more than earned that one. Whether this was legend, or fact, no one really knew. Attacking the Mayor had happened so fast. In reality, many of them were truly not sure what did the fushia in.

But isn’t it nice to believe in some justice in the world, even for a second?

Barely loses his game of tetris, pausing to reach over and steal another pack of gummy sharks from the DunnerMart rack, before starting a new game.

He didn’t end up taking the train that night, or the night after. He had hoped he could make a little money before hopping on the express train anyways, and the people of the municipality were nothing if not grateful and willing to indulge him after everything with Dunner. One of the better off fisherman in Creekturn offered the young man a ludicrous sum of money, which the six sweep old had humbly turned down, instead offering it to his friend Damial, to buy back his farm, to which the giant purpleblood had started to cry, and then loudly insisted his allergies were acting up and stormed out of the room.

But Barely had accepted measlier sums. Many of the trolls from these towns didn’t have much to give but so many seemed glad to be rid of Dunner that the small sums piled up, until he had acquired a pretty eighteen hundred caegars. Which the young man had joked would probably get him a hotel room in the big city for a single night, knowing rent up there, and the adults had laughed in the slightly surprised way adults do when charmed by a young person's unexpected worldliness.

He had been given physical gifts too. A man good with sewing had made Barely a smart red cap and jacket, insisting things really were that cold up north. He had been given pretty lacey new bow ribbons for his braids and tail, a full pair of gloves, a first aid kit, another brown jacket- which Vekeso came up from Baskertop to deliver, proudly telling him that it was Baskertop made leather, and would last him twenty sweeps longer than whatever plastic fabric they’re pedalling in the city stores.

At this point, the little celebrity had started to run out of room in his backpack, and had told his admirers that there was only one thing left he’d make room for, and that was books. Science, mystery novels if they had them. And so the town looked through old boxes for such things. One troll gifted him a box set of the complete works of agatha christie, which had made him beam so much in excitement Miss Laryan called him an angel, to which the little man huffed and declared his interest to be purely academic in retaliation. There were more mystery novels- popular ones- but also rarer ones, the kind of old out of print little pulp fictions that are harder to come by.

Eventually, Barely became so attached to the many books he finally conceded to bring another bag, a little roll along suitcase where he stored the novels. Miss Laryan had given him her little book of crossword puzzles, telling him that he was better than her at them anyways.

“Barely” She had said to him, from the end of the table at Damial’s sparse living room, when the novelty had truly started to fade, and she finally found time to ask a question she had been dreading.

“Do you have anybody waitin’ on you up north?” She asks.

He pauses, tucking a bookmark in his book and closing it.

“No” he admits.

“I was scared you’d say that” She sighs. “It really is dangerous up there, darling. They don’t have the kind of hospitality we do. I know you think you’re tough as nails, Barely, but I just…”

She sets down her mug.

“Do ya really have to go?” She says softly.

“I made it this far, Miss. I’m not runnin’ back to Umbra with my tail between my legs.”

“Not back to Umbra, Barely, here” she says. “You could stay here, with me and Vekeso, we’ve got a smart little school downtown.”

Barely pauses, his eyes softening so sweetly she’s sure he will answer yes, but when the detective opens his mouth, the words-

“Thank you Miss, really. You’re one of the kindest people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in my travels. But I can’t do that. I’m headin’ up north for a reason. It’s why I left home in the first place.”

-fall from it.

“And what reason is that?” She says, hurt and bitter and worried.

“What other reason could there be for a detective, Miss Laryan. I’m workin’ on a case. A very important one.”

“More important than what you did here? I don’t know what money they offered ya-” She starts.

“I’m doin’ it for free, Miss.” He replies. “Because it's the right thing to do.”

She doesn’t seem sure how to answer that.

“Not a murder, is it…?” She voices another fear, slowly.

Barely pauses, as if, inexplicably, this question requires careful thought. As if this case blurred the lines on what murder was and wasn’t, which was somehow more concerning than an all out yes.

“No, Miss Laryan” He decides. Choosing his words so slowly and carefully an apt listener might be able to determine he described something only technically true, that he was misconstruing to calm his friend.

“More of a regular old theft” He says, spitting his necklace into his hand, staring at it.

“You don’t sound awful sure,” She accuses.

“I swear,” he says. “That’s the truth, Miss. Somethin’ mighty important was stolen from somebody I care about more than any troll in the world.” He insists, and he seems so passionate that Laryan pauses.

“And who's that?” She asks.

“My twin,” The young man says.

“Your TWIN??” She guffaws. “There's another Barely out there?”

“Well, that's not his name” Barely grins, shyly and a little sorrowfully, before determinedly changing the subject.

“But anyways, Miss, I’m goin’ uptown, and all messiahs and terrors couldn’t stop me.”

She seems like she wants to argue more, but the teenager is so final in his tone, she caves.

“You’ll write once you get there?” She asks. “And call, just so everybody knows you’re fine?”

“Yes ma’am.” He answers, picking up his book again.

“How long’ve you been a detective? '' Vekeso had asked him, while leading him on a victorious horse lap around town a couple days prior.

Barely pauses, not wanting to have his prowess questioned. “A long time,” he insists.

“I said how long, Megapan, you got a number?” The cowboy scoffed with a grin.

The child looked to the side.

“A quarter sweep” He admits.

“A quarter sweep” Vekeso says, “is not a long time.”

“It is too!” Barely insists.

“You just think that” The man shrugs. “Cus you don’ have many sweeps to spare, Detective Barely.”

“I unraveled a town wide conspiracy” he defends. “Not bad for an amateur.”

Vekeso raises his hands in surrender, but doesn’t drop the lead he was guiding the horse Barely was on with.

“I’m not doubtin’ yer ability, kid” he assures. “Just- Messiahs in name” he swears. “Ya shoulda never had to do sucha thing. Pupa’s like you should be chasin’ voles down rivers without a care in their heads, Barely. Don’t forget that.”

“It’s not my fault a case needed solvin’” he retorts, for some reason his concern making him feel more small than Vekeso’s mockery ever could.

“I guess that’s true” The jadeblood sighs. “That just makes me sad. What kinda world are we makin’ for youngin’s, huh?” He huffs. “You got plenty of time to grow up, lil’ columbo. Spend some of it bein’ a regular ol’ kid.”

“I’ll try-” He starts.

“Promise, Barely” The cowboy answers, holding up a pinky to the young man, knowing a pinky promise passed for blood oath among most children.

The young rust is silent for a long moment, before reaching over and wrapping his pinky with the jade’s.

“I promise, Mister Vekeso” He says.

Eventually, despite Miss Laryan’s best efforts, a young man stands once again at a train station, being looked over by three adults.

“An’ you got that first aid kit I gave you?” Asks Damial, his hands on the kids shoulders. Barely nods.

“An’ the cellphone? An’ the pocketknife? An’ the pepper spray?” He asks, fussing.

Vekeso laughs at his friend.

“You sound like a jadeblood” He jokes, in that loving way Vekeso always teased people he liked.

“Who took a two nights train ride up justa say bye to the kid?” Damial bites back, reaching behind Vekeso and slapping upwards on his cowboy hat, causing it to fall comically forward over his eyes, before turning back to Barely.

“An’ don’t go talkin’ to no highbloods” He says.

“Mister Damial, you’re a highblood” Barely grins.

“Yeah but I’m not a jackass” Damial warns, to which MIss Laryan shushes him.

“Pupa words! Pupa words!” She insists, genuinely upset with him for cursing. It might just be because she’s worked herself into a tizzy, trying not to cry and or faint. Barely takes her hand.

“It’s okay Miss,” He says, pulling her into a hug. “I’ll be alright, I promise” And no sooner than his arms wrapped around her body true to her nature, Miss Laryans drops to the ground, fainted.

“It’s okay,” Damial says, scrambling to catch her. “Don’t miss yer train, kid, we got her.” He reassures. His hands are trembling ever so slightly. Miss Laryan had insisted on the man sobering up for a spell, which would probably do him good, but the withdrawals were still working their way through his body. Vekeso slips an arm under his elbow quietly and effortlessly, and in a simple and intimate gesture, takes the larger cowboys hand to steady it.

“Yeah Barely” Vek reassures. “We’ll be fine.”

Barely had not been there for Vekeso and Damial’s reuniting. He had imagined it hadn’t been quite as pretty as this picture of them now appeared to be, and he was right. There had been long winded monologues of anger and guilt and upset that were exchanged. Both trolls seemed to agree they had done each other wrong. But the truth is, Damial had forgiven Vekeso the moment Barely had read his name off that wallet paper, and Vekeso had forgiven Damial even sooner, the moment he had heard the purpleblood took on three cops to give that kid a moment to escape on the train. For an hour or two they cried, and yelled, but at the end of it, in the manner men sometimes have a way of doing after being especially vulnerable, they had dropped the topic like a stone and considered themselves best friends again. This simple and effective communicative solution to what had been a months long feud had caused Miss Laryan to tearfully exclaim

“You two are so STUPID” In a frustrated happiness and relief, and stormed out of the room.

Whatever had happened with the business of whatever feelings they may or may not have had for each other, well, the town gossiped and gossiped, but I don’t think it’s my place to say. Damial was frightfully shy for a man his size when sober, and Vekeso was just as private a person as he’d ever been. Every quad in the book was tossed at the wall but couldn’t be proven. Eventually, they decided to let the cowboys be, and decide in their own time. Everyone was long past the subject by the moment one of the farmhands told his friends a Lars, that late one night on the ranch once, he had seen Damial standing up near the wooden fence of the property line in the distance, and seen Vekeso step off the ground onto the fences first rung to lean up and plant a kiss on the man’s lips, as if it were the easiest most natural thing in the world.

Many of the townspeople found themselves strangely relaxed by this believable rumor, as if through all of Damial’s drunken lamenting and Vekeso’s sullen rides through the countryside at odd hours, a small part of them was truly glad it had worked out for the two men after all.

“One more thing Mister Vekeso” Say’s Barely, bringing the story crashing back down to the reality of them at the train station. The jadeblood looks up curiously.

“You too Mister Damial-” Barely adds. “A warning, to the people of Baskertop, and Shercattle, and Creekturn, all the way up from Umbra” He qualifies.

“You ever see a fancy dressed purple bandit come this way- hat and poncho lined up with golden runes, low bangs and four horns and a weird shadow” He lists, turning slightly towards the train. “Kill him” The child warns, “On sight.” He says, and then with that strange and ominous note, climbs aboard the train. Having lingered too long in his goodbyes, he has to rush a little to find an empty cabin. He sits down for what will surely be a long, long ride. Barely watches the edges of Creekturns landscape roll past. The sparse farmhives slowly give way to sprawling lit suburbs. His mind struggled to wrap itself around a melancholy of large concepts that had started to consume him in his friend’s absence. Thinking about change, and loss, and fear.

Wondering what people thought of him, meeting him with no knowledge another half even existed. Thinking about his brother. What he thought about his brother everywhere but didn’t say. What he saw of his brother in every troll he came across. He found his twin in Vekeso’s jives, in Damial’s resentment, in Dunner’s fear. In Miss Laryan’s quiet loving assistance with so many things she didn’t really know much about. A quarter sweep is a long time, and a short time, and both all at once. Yes, it was the amount of time he’d been a detective. But it was also the longest he and his sibling had ever been apart. Barely was the exact same, but had changed irrevocably. He was a buried nest of contradictions that lies in the tumbling deep little heart of any troll brave enough to ever be six sweeps old and afraid and alone. His worry about ever finding him giving way to a larger, stranger and scarier worry, that Barely would find him, but then come to realize slowly, that he no longer was the meek mannered young boy who had followed around his stronger sibling like a ghost.

About an hour into the ride, He tires of this meandering solique of thought, and instead shuffles through his bag, and pulls out Miss Laryan’s book of crossword puzzles. The first one is far too easy. Popularized by Joseph Cambell’s favorite novel, a circular plot structure consistent against cultures, it reads, five letters,

The _____ Journey

youtube

#barely writing #fantroll #fantroll rp #homestuck #homestuck oc #homestuck rp #my writing #SIGHS #I still like this one a lot #barely my beloved...#closes the little barely arc but it will be opened at some point #Youtube

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crimson-catalyst · 3 months ago

Text

wrote some prose for my december 2023 neph prompt, "gift shopping" ft Jesse, Oliver, and their sister @skittykittycat's Ersie! enjoy Jesse being a piece of work <3

~~~~~

"Anyone special you’re getting a gift for?" Ashleigh waggles her eyebrows, making conversation as she and Jesse leave class.

Jesse rolls his eyes. “I have no more time to date anyone than the last time you asked me. Nor money to go shopping with.”

“You’re not shopping at all? Nothing for your family or anything?” she looks shocked, almost hurt, her little ears drooping. Different strokes for different folks, he figured; Seasons' Gifting had never been such a big deal to Jesse, besides as a reason to ask his parents for things.

He shrugs. “They live all the way in Roost. I'm not gonna get something there intact in time.”

“No like- don’t you live with your brother?? and isn't your sister here in town too??”

“oh” Jesse blinks, “right.”

Ashleigh circles in front of him, corralling him as she walk backwards. “Have you really never gotten them Seasons’ Gifts before??”

Jesse quirks an ear. “Not really, no. Ersie moved out before I had my own money and Mom and Dad have always gotten everything for me and Oliver.”

“omg." she practically prances, little hooves clipping excitedly on the ground. "Then you totally should!! Start a tradition!!”

“Wouldn't it be weird?”

“Of course not!! You're an adult now - mostly. You've got your own place and you're independent! You should totally pick something out for them, it'll be fun!”

He tilted his head, thinking. “I guess I could,” it did sound fun. Maybe he could be the star bringing them closer, starting a new tradition between them all. Surely they wouldn't have thought to get him anything; it wasn’t really a habit for the Sceo siblings...

-- How did he get here, again?

Jesse stares blankly at the shelves in a street-level shop selling… whatever this shit was. Glass sculptures clearly from molds, mass-produced macrame that'd fall apart in a month, stock photos printed on canvas. Useless knick-knacks and dustables. Kitsch. He wrinkles his nose and pointedly looks away from the display of fish shaped mugs so contorted they were long past useable for drink.

You're buying gifts for Ersie and your stupid brother, he reminds himself. How’d you let yourself get suckered into this one?

He didn't know what they’d want. It's not like they ever shared their interests with him. All Ersie ever did these days was get on his case, after she insisted on dragging the twins out and about with her to socialize. And Oliver was… Oliver. He hid in his room for days and days and only showed his face for food he didn't have to make. Jesse feels his lip curl in annoyance.

Whatever. Whatever!! This isn't what he was here for. He heaves a sigh and shakes his head to clear it, trying to calm down. Maybe all this’d be a good reason for them to open up more with him. He had been pretty busy with school and hadn't been able to devote them that much of his time and attention, after all. What in the world could he get them, though? He really didn't know what either of them liked these days - although at the very least, he certainly wasn't going to find what he was looking for in this shop.

C'mon, Jesse, brainstorm. Ersie's easy she just likes lights. She wears them all the time and she won't shut up about her light shows when you get her going.... didn't Ashleigh just show you her new fairylights in her dorm?? Done. Sorted. He mentally pats himself on the back. This was easy. Ashleigh would love that she was his inspiration. Now Oliver.....

Gods. He really did just spend all his time in his room, out of sight and talking quietly to his Whisker chat. Video games would be an easy answer but he definitely had all the ones he wanted, sometimes even before they were released; and he knew way more about his ludicrous gamer tech than Jesse ever would. Neither of those would work. He'd have to get a little more creative. As he passes the last shelf in the store he stops and thinks. Maybe...

"HEY hi Jesse sorry, I only finally got out of work!!" Ersie adjusts her grip on her phone, holding it slightly above her face so she looks okay on camera. "We've been sooo busy this season. What's up?"

Jesse smiles at Ersie on his screen, admittedly with a little pride. “I left you a gift in your mailbox between classes!”

“Oh?” Ersie’s eyes light up, though her voice belies a bit of her confusion. “For Seasons’ Gifting? I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do an exchange so I haven’t bought you anything yet, forgive me.” The background of her video shifts through her apartment as she moves towards the door, little sparkly lights behind her putting starbursts in the camera.

“It’s fine,” Jesse sounds smug. “It was my idea to surprise you anyway.”

“Aw, sweet of you!” Ersie’s picture dipped to her paws for a moment as she opened the door. “Reception’s kinda bad in the lobby so if i drop you just call me back!!”

A moment later she was scurrying back into her cozy flat, backlit by her softly pulsing light display on the walls. Balancing her phone atop the gift, she snaps her claws and another set of brighter lights illuminate the room at her bidding.

“Okay!!! Let’s take a look,” Ersie exclaims as she plops onto her plush couch, box in hand, wrapped in a perfectly nondescript way indicative of the paws of a tired retail employee. Jesse watches as she untied the glitter-filled ribbon and delicately tears down the middle of the paper with an extended claw, exposing the packaging beneath.

"...Little Kits'... DIY fairy lights? This is cute, Jesse." She pulls out the prepackaged craft kit: little die-cut origami papers to fold over an included string of lights. She was smiling, sure, but Jesse had heard her freak out over something she loved before and this wasn't it.

"You don't like it?" His ears twitch, irritated, and he thumps the carpet with his tail off-camera.

"I didn't say that! This is really thoughtful," her voice is still cheery as she turns the box over in her paws, examining the packaging, clearly branded for children.

"You don't need to lie to make me feel better."

Ersie rolls her eyes and picks her phone up from its stand. "Jesse, I'm not. I'm really, honestly flattered you went out of your way to pick out something for me when you didn't have to and that you got me something I enjoy! We've only barely known each other for a year now." "I'm twenty y-" "-and we've hardly interacted for fifteen years, Jesse, yes. I'm really, really happy you dropped this off, okay?" She smiles earnestly into the camera.

Jesse narrows his eyes and swishes his tail, but this finally passes his approval. "Okay well good. I went to like three different craft stores before I found the right ones. And the Highe's lighting aisle is wild? what's up with all the chandeliers? there weren't even any stupid light strings." he shakes his head. "Shopping sucks on its own - stores never have what you want and you wander all over and spend so much money, and then you still have to walk home..."

"How you suffered for your generosity!" Ersie snickers. "This was really sweet, Jesse, thank you. I'll see if I can't scrounge something up for you too before the season's over."

His ears perk up, triumphant, but he can't let it go.

"-but for real Ersie. What didn't I get perfect?"

Ersie bursts out a good-natured laugh. "I love you, and I love the gift, but this is for spittens, Jesse. I do this for a living."

“...a candle.”

Oliver holds a round jar candle in his huge, scarfy hand, peeking through the barest crack of his bedroom door. It’s a question disguised as a statement.

Jesse shrugs. “I dunno, people who spend all day in the house like to make their place… smell nice, or whatever. Look, it's scents of Roost. Mimos rosa and spring winds.” He grabs the jar back from his brother’s hand, pointing at the pink label.

“I…. can’t leave candles burning when I’m streaming, I’m not paying attention to my surroundings for too long. And fire… doesn’t… tangle well with um. fabric.” he whispers the last word about his curse, as if his voice wasn't already too soft. “Why are you giving me this?”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “It’s Seasons’ Gifting, obviously. Happy Seasons’ or whatever. You're welcome.”

“You’ve… never given me anything for Seasons’ before?” Oliver shifts his weight, hesitantly lowering his hand from the doorway, candle still in Jesse’s paws. “thank.. you? um…”

"I thought I'd start a new tradition," Jesse snorts in annoyance. "We should buy each other Seasons' things now that Mom and Dad won't - and Ersie"s around. It's fine if you didn't get me anything this year. It's not like I told you I was gonna. And there’s still a week anyway.”

“y..yeah, okay." His eyes shift away and his eyebrows furrow at the mention of leaving the house. He's trying to shrink back into his room, Jesse can tell. His ears twitch.

“At least take it.” he thrusts the candle back towards his brother. "Ersie liked hers."

“I just told you I can't use it.”

“You said- there has to be times you're not huddled over that stupid microphone - Its for you, you can just let it look pretty! I don't want it!” he waggles it meaningfully, his arm extended, tail rising in anger. His brother doesn't even raise his hand from the floor.

“Thank you Jesse but I don't want fire in my room.” an edge creeps into his voice as he turns away from the crack of his door.

Jesse bristles, and snarls as he turns away in a furious huff. "Gods, so much for new tradition! sorry I bothered!"

He doesn't seem to hear Oliver's quiet retort as the door shuts with a click. “Maybe you shouldn't have.”

#prose #loreposting #im not sure what my writing tag is rn #Jesse Sceo #Oliver Sceo #Ersie Sceo #Tales from Nephfei #nephfei #spinx #spinxyn #reading every line from jesse's perspective and how he's patting himself on the back and making it all about him is SOOOOOO fun lmao #lotta intentional word choice in this one. he is such a fucking mess of a cat #pic is from Unsplash!

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