#im not tagging everyone that was involved

[alt-wannabe]

[docdufresne]

docnut.png

[poisonousquinzel]

"I'm nobody. I haven't done anything with my life like you have."

Todd Phillips, Scott Silver, Lady Gaga genuinely, lovingly, fuck you.

I will never forgive you. I hope every day your bones get softer and softer and then one day when you're not expecting it, I shall be there, and I will gnaw through your Achilles heel<3

[socksandbuttons]

I have to say that TSAMS history is the worst nightmare for someone who has abandonment complexes with fear of being replaced by their loved ones. Just watching today's episode in LAES where it appears that Old Moon has not only moved in with Sun, but IN THE SAME ROOM as New Moon and was even trying to remove his things XDD How easy it is to replace the members of this family, right? ?

Oof yeah that left a bad mark- Nexus aint gonna take that too well-

[ninthprime]

shout out to keith this season for deciding that despite not having characters who were close to gur sevraq before that eclectic should get involved, and now within two missions eclectic has had a traumatic gur related experience and is obsessively watching gur sevraq tapes and having psychic visions inside them. as a gur fan i feel so represented. thank you keith

[goosologist]

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

here's some tidbits from the Laughingstock Misunderstanding fic outline, just 'cause i got mild amusement outta them and thought y'all might too <3

[linkneol091]

JOSUKE MY GUY

[mabaris]

not the first to say this but. this is untenable. god

[thegreatbeyondmp3]

can't stop thinking about all the swarm motifs from the return tour, that've yet to resurface. my impulse is that that'll have something to do with the resistance during the concrete age. like there's the black parade (reanimated?) as the national band, a forcibly (?) adopted symbol of the Grand Immortal Dictator's government, and the swarm (or something related to it) is what's working to take it down and bring liberation

actually, to elaborate on that, the description on ig says that "their work privilege has been reinstated", so I believe that the Black Parade may have originally been a symbol of the resistance, and now they're being rebranded as a symbol of the regime. which is something we see all the time in real life, people or movements that start out with genuinely liberatory intentions + actions, that are then appropriated by empire to neutralize any revolutionary potential

I've seen some people suggest that the patient is the GID, but I don't think that's right. I think that the patient is someone who had a connection to the Black Parade in his youth, and like the secretary, ended working for the GID, and ends up in a position similarly close position to power, but without working as a double agent. going off the lyrics of foundations of decay, I think the patient is the male figure in that song, and discovers her disloyalty, but pleads to him change his tune, and he ends up getting credit for her works, because they both die before her legacy has a chance to be redeemed ("he gets to die a saint, but she will always be the whore").

cw for suicide mention below

I think that foundations is about his reflections on her influence. I think it's obvious now that the whole song is connected to The Black Parade as an album, but I feel like it's an especially close corollary to Disenchanted. I think he finds out about her disloyalty, and as he's reflecting on everything he's done to bring about the Concrete Age, resulting from some kind of interaction with her, he realizes the evil that he's been a part of, and kills himself. Because another key part of foundations is that you can either cling to the remnants of the dying concrete age because it's more familiar and comforting, or you can stop being a coward and embrace the change of the swarm and all the messy, imperfect possibilities, and I think á la Javert in Les Mis, he can't live with the comprehension of what he's contributed to.

it's tough to work out with the limited lore that we've got so far, but that's my two cents so far.

[dyshonor]

the importance of burning birthday bread

Randal knows the season his birth is supposed to be from.

In most- but not all- places he's been in, the leaves change color. They had in Elibe, which was really the only time it had mattered. He hadn't appreciated it then, the continuity of it all.

That was fine. Placing importance onto dates seemed a silly thing regardless. At this point, who cared?

—

"Keep a diary," he tells Emma. "Write something for every day."

Her bow seems to twitch with a life of its own. "…my progress isn't that interesting," Emma says, like she's ashamed. "A-and you know I'm not one to slack off, even if you or Shade aren't around."

"That's not—" and Randal catches himself, because that would be rude. He tries again. "Emma. When we don't move through time the same way as everyone else, it's easy to lose track of the days."

She stares at him, unimpressed. "The sky is blue. Duh Randal, I'm living out this whole world-hopping thing just the same as you." She turns back to the task she had been tending to, which was massaging out grass stain from her tights into a bucket. Hesitates. "I- well, I appreciate the sentiment. But it doesn't bother me too much."

There's no intentional rudeness in her voice. She's simply baffled, a bit talked-down to. This is an understandable reaction, particularly when Randal has stumbled his way through more accidentally demeaning comments than these.

Here, however, there is the reluctant admittance of concern. Emma is thirteen, was probably thirteen when she got roped up into this whole mess, and will not (will not. he emphasizes this to ensure it) be thirteen forever. She does not deserve to second-guess herself at every memory, when she experiences three autumns in a row because the Chaos has elected to toss her whichever way it goes.

Randal sinks himself into the dirt besides her and sighs overdramatically. "Well, y'see, my memory's awful fading me."

"M-memory?"

A grim nod. "When y'get t'my age, these sorts o' things creep up on ya without even realizin' it. I'll be needin' you to remind me."

Quiet. Randal chances a side-glance at Emma. Her scrubbing has faltered. He presses on.

"And besides, when we're separated, I'll wanna know-"

"If."

Randal fights off the sigh that rises in his throat. The guilt that trickles up his back at stumbling through such posturing- and intentionally, this time- does not pass him by. He keeps himself silent and lets Emma do the work.

Sure enough, she relents.

"W-well, if you're gonna be this much of a poop about it…"

"Mm."

"But you've gotta do it too, okay? So I can know what you're up to!"

"'course, kid." Randal does always tend to get what he wants, even if only for a bit.

—

When he turns soft-cheeked and bright-eyed, he wonders how old he is.

Right now, he can make vague summations: whatever has sent him back into this finer form, free of wrinkles and stubble, is likely not Boundless Chaos. Thus, any rules he had figured out beforehand of determining his age had been merrily thrown out the window.

Randal massages his jaw, traces his finger down the edge of his earlobe. Were the scars that were supposed to be there erased, or had they not been formed yet? Either way, their memory was there.

How old is Randal now, really? His body is: twenty, ish. It has freshly won itself a mansion a good score of years ago, it is the lord of fistfuls of pawns that turn their nose and swords for it.

He is: forty? Fifty? Old. He does not feel old, not even in a young-at-heart sense. Every memory that that older self had dredged together is held in a mental tome, read out to him as if by an entirely different person.

A strand of too-long hair trails in front of his face. He pinches it, twirls it between his fingers.

Here, in the academy, they actually keep dates. The twenty-third of the Wyvern Moon, the tenth month of the calendar year. Regardless of how much time has passed, this is the 'date' of his birth.

That older him had never been affected by things like that. He had passed by the date the first time he had stepped foot in this academy and not mentioned it to anyone, not had anyone mention it to him. There is no grand 'desire' built into him, and so he should follow suit. If he really is that 'same Randal'.

His fingers drop. What did that Randal like?

—

Here is what Randal did during the anniversary of the forty-fourth year of his birth, unknowingly:

Pull an all-nighter to see the sunrise

Rebraid his horse's hair

Make fresh bread

Turn in early for the night

Here is what Randal does during what might be the anniversary of the forty-fifth year of his birth, knowingly:

Dresses, then re-dresses when he catches the stain on his sleeve

Comes late to breakfast and eats cold food

Gets bitten by his horse

Gives up and lies on the grass

Why hasn't he left yet? Sensibly, tiredly, he knows this is what he must do. The second he woke up like this he knew he needed to plod his way on over to his mansion or what ruins remained of it. At the very least, get away from whatever sort of set-up that Randal had established for himself.

Yet here he was, pussy-footing his way out of taking any action. He did not need anyone else here to tell him that he was pretty definitively pathe-

He shuts his eyes. What sort of person wallowed in self-pity on their birthday? Faintly, he recalls making it a whole good-and-proper affair, before time had changed around him. Inviting neighboring lords and making it quite clear to everyone involved his staying power, that he had his shit together.

Hm. So it hadn't been much of a celebration as much as it had been an establishment of power. Not that any of that had mattered in the end. Great thanks, Boundless Chaos. Siccing that blue cunt onto him was pleasant icing on the cake.

One day will bleed into the next into the month into the year into the decade, and he will still be twisted nicely by whatever wants to have his way with him. Then, inevitably, he will be wiped clean back onto the slate of that older him, and nothing he will have done will have mattered. It won't even be written down.

He sits up forcefully at the thought.

—

The calendar let him know. That inconsequential day, which didn't even reside in the mental book of memories he kept, so useless it had been, forces itself into paper. A scrawled on recipe of the bread he had made that day.

'prety damn good. make again.'

He hadn't. He hadn't even bothered to spell the reminder correctly, so why'd he take enough of a step to write the recipe in clear lettering?

Randal bites the bullet and hands it off to one of the kitchen staff, who wear smiles that grow more strained when trying to make out the lettering. Ugh. This was embarrassing. If there weren't bigger things he was afraid of, he'd lie and say that it hadn't been him who wrote it there.

They rewrite the lettering on a napkin, admitting as they hand it off to him that they're making some educated guesses on a great deal of this.

That's fine.

—

He burns it. Of course he burns it.

Even after sucking it up and extending a begging hand towards the staff, begging for a touch of starter, even after nabbing flour he probably shouldn't have owned, even after stealing a salt shaker from the common room table when it was explicitly forbidden given the frequency that they disappeared, he just burnt it.

It sits in the open, still-lit oven, far more akin to a block of coal than anything edible. Hell, it seems to glow just like one, too.

What did he want from this? He doesn't entirely know. Probably something romantic like: here is this memory, it was good, I was here. Transient and forceful and an all-together good thing, where even if that dastard wanted to dismiss and forget it entirely, wafting scents would resurface the thought. Might even be something he missed.

Of course, Randal could not even conjure up this much.

He hangs his head and bunches his hair up in the back of it, practically ripping at his ribbon. Useless, useless, waste of—

"Randal?"

He startles up. There's that girl again- Emma. All dressed up in concern and worry. Shit.

"A-ah, Emma! You know, girls like you really shouldn't be—"

"Take it out!" The concerned expression on her face explodes into near-fear. "It's going to catch fire!"

"I- oh! Uhm-"

—

It sits in front of them, burnt and soggy all the same. An altogether disgusting lump.

"Can you read?" Emma asks plainly enough.

"Wha- yes, I can read! Of all the daft-"

"Mmm." She folds her hands. "Okay. I was gonna offer to read you the instructions in the future, since I thought you were just winging it out of necessity, but I guess not…"

Randal blusters. She hadn't even meant it as an insult, which only makes it sting all the more. "I'm not incompetant, you know."

Emma doesn't respond, instead just entertaining him with a roll of her eyes and a prop up of her chin. She chews noisily. "I guess that'll be somethin' else to tell him…"

"I'm… sorry?"

"Or write down. If he doesn't remember." She snorts a bit. "Let him know what shenanigans you got up to. He got up to." Her face twists, as if she bit something unpleasant. "Sorry, uhm... it's still weird."

Randal doesn't have anything to say to that beyond the usual protest of being the very same, so he doesn't. "You record these kinds of things?" he ventures instead.

Emma shrugs. "He doesn't tell me to do much long-term stuff, so I might as well… and I like having a diary! It's fun flipping through old entries." She pats her pocket, evidently where it's being kept. Ever on her person. "The world is so big! Keeping track of it is nice."

He stares, painfully aware of the owlishness of his blinks. "I see," he settles on instead.

There is a temptation, then, to ask: what will you write about me? The Randal that stands before you now, will you make special note of it? Will you recount other memories of him, to others? Probably, she didn't seem to discriminate. And if all he wanted was to be recorded, then-

"Well. Time to get to it."

Before he has the time to ask her what it is, Emma has ripped off a piece of the bread and slammed it back.

"I- excuse me?"

She holds out a piece to him. "Come on! Wasting food is no good." She speaks around the bite in her mouth. Randal is somewhat shocked she hasn't gagged on it. "It's your responsibility, y'know…"

She looks expectant, but not hostile. Randal takes it from her. It's not as if she could've poisoned it in the seconds she had her hands on it, probably, and even if she could, she probably wouldn't risk that dastard dyi-

"You've gotta eat it. It's your mess, y'know." She swallows thickly. "It's not the worst…"

Randal takes a bite. The freshly soggy, charred crust pairs nicely with the gooey, underbaked center.

—

It's not as if that dastard would care to remember what Randal did, and Randal finds it even less likely that he'd actually read the entries in here, but he writes it down anyway.

on how to bake a loaf of sourdough bread. properly. for days that you want to remember.

gather ingredients: yeast - salt - sugar - flour - water, lukewarm. find someone to get starter from.

begin.

[sadhorsegirl]

obsessed with how dysfunctional the white tower is. it's like if u went to a dentistry school where corporal punishment was encouraged and being catholic was required. and u weren't allowed to read anything published by other schools and also there are a bunch of tooth brushes lying around that no one is allowed to touch bc they "might" be dangerous. also some of ur peers are evil (?) and trying to murder u (?). and only one of teachers knows how to safely remove a tooth but refuses to teach anyone bc she can't trust anyone with her secrets. and also one in three students die taking the final exam. and once u graduate it turns out there is also an entirely vibes based hierarchy within the dentist community that no one ever warned u abt. also u have to promise to never tell a lie ever EVER again.

[minigemdoodles]

They're finished! I spent so much time making them when I should've been doing other things but it was so worth it.

I listened a lot to the good omens audiobook while I worked on them and I didn't realise just how long it had been since I last read the book. It was a good experience

[thegreatyin]

who is the scoundrel? I see you posting about them(it? Idk) all the time but I haven’t figured out who they are

my fallen london OC! i made them by accident a few months ago and as you can tell ive very quickly developed scoundrel brainrot. it's a terminal illness for which there is no cure and the symptoms are instead of brain there is scoundrel.

in terms of actual character rundowns, their full moniker is The Bandaged Scoundrel, though i tend to call them "the scoundrel" for short. their real name is D█████, but they'd sooner die permanently than respond to or even acknowledge its existence.

they are! a bastard! a rat! a son of a b___! a motherf______! they are vain beyond your wildest imagination and they think they're the most infallible perfect being in all of existence and they have the exact attitude of a saturday morning power-hungry cartoon supervillain on cocaine.

and also, perhaps most importantly, they're Really Fucking Stupid. because of course they are.

they are resplendently awful. they are inevitably going to cause their own demise in an act of pure karmic retribution. they are a speck of dust in history that desperately keeps trying to insist they're actually a tornado. i love them dearly.

in loose conclusion while also acknowledging ive explained literally nothing; my goofy silly victorian london browser game player character that deserves to get timetraveled against their will to the 21st century specifically so they can get hit by a truck

[arkiwii]

leaving every social media until the release of chap 14 in global in approximatively 6 months bc people dont know how to not spoil bye /j

[astral-schools]

you are the most important person in this story.

you are dead.

this story is your own drawn out funeral. you are not the main character, and yet your ghost lives in the shadow of every step they take. you have been consumed, body and mind, and words spill from your voice without your direction. your actions are judged in your absence; you are on trial and you cannot defend yourself. you have no defense.

you are not the main character. you are not a character. you are a foundation. you are an idea. you are a lesson. (you are a villain, in every story but your own.)

there are two ghosts in this story. one is at the center of it all. the other is you. the first one is also you. he decided to be. (and then he decided not to be.)

(he killed you and decided you weren't good enough.)

you didn't have a voice. you didn't get a say. you weren't even there.

no one knows how you felt about dying. they didn't need to. you are not a main character in this story. (this story is not about you.) you are the most important piece of this story. (this story could not happen without you.) you do not have the power to change anything.

you have the power to change nothing. (whether you want to or not.)

you are in checkmate.

(you've never been very good at chess. what an infuriating game.)