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fantasticsandwich · 1 month

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yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 2)

Don't you know you're the apple of his eye?

Your fingertips were raw from constant nipping, the consequence of a nervous habit that resurfaced whenever your textbooks lay sprawled open like the wings of a fallen bird. Molecular biology had become your latest adversary in the quiet battleground of your small, well-lit room. Your eyes darted across diagrams and text while your brain fought to corral the stubborn facts into memory. They spun around, lines at a time, before coiling into helix lattices. You stared at the wall, watching as the facts floated across your vision like cell clusters inside the vitreous.

“Adenine pairs with thymine,” you muttered under your breath. You chewed on what was left of your nail, wincing slightly at the sting, but it was a pain less sharp than the prospect of failure. The glasses perched on the bridge of your nose slipped down, and you pushed them back up with a knuckle, not daring to smear the pristine lens with sweat-glossed fingers.

The sudden buzz of your phone shattered the stillness. It vibrated against the wooden surface of your desk insistently, the noise disproportionately loud in the silence. Cillian was the first person you thought of, and with him in mind, a wave of anxiety rolled through your chest. If it was him, calling you out for one of his impromptu gatherings, how could you say no without igniting his subtle ire?

Sighing, you ignored it. If he said anything, you would pretend to have been asleep.

“Focus,” you scolded yourself, yet your hand betrayed you, reaching for the device. The screen lit up, casting a glow on your tense features as you swiped to read the message.

‘Hey Y/N, can we meet? - Rian.’

It wasn't Cillian. Relief mingled with curiosity, loosening the tight knot of worry in your stomach. But why would Rian want to meet so suddenly? A simple inquiry, yet it stirred a flutter in your heart that felt oddly like hope.

Your fingers hovered over the reply button, pulse quickening at the possibility of an impromptu meet-up. A meet-up meant stepping away from the books and into a moment that was unplanned, untailored, something you hardly allotted time to.

"Sure, where?" you typed back, thumbs almost slipping on the screen in your haste. You pressed send before the seeds of doubt could take root, before you could convince yourself to decline for the sake of study or appeasement.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

You found him waiting on O’Connell. The bridge was pulsing with Dublin's lifeblood, tourists snapping photos, street performers drawing crowds, locals weaving through it all with purposeful strides.

You saw him, but you were distracted, mesmerized by the crowd indifferently swimming around, swallowing you whole. You wished you could've delved into all of their psyches; mentally or otherwise, it was impossible to know what was wrong with someone. Some people were saints. Some were the worst people alive. Some were average. Some knew what they were and longed to appear otherwise. You were delighted by humanity’s infinite potential. Whether good or bad, humans held an even capacity for both. Someday, you would have to save the life of someone who didn’t deserve to live. You wondered what kind of person you’d become then, when your morals were upheld by a code.

Being in a crowd offered a wonderful sense of anonymity. You weren't anyone. You didn’t belong anywhere, but not one member of the numberless throng knew that. Momentarily, you were granted the chance to become anyone. Not an aspiring doctor. Not another student obsessed with owning nice things. All you wanted to be was at you friend’s side, enjoying the evening.

You stumbled through, eventually reaching Rian. His gaze fluttered to the pavement, then he moved to reach for his wallet. You snuck over, moving until you stood directly behind him. Hands creeping up to his shoulders, you pressed down, stifling a laugh when he jumped.

“Hey!”

“Shit, Y/N,” he hissed, fumbling with his wallet.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

At that moment, his stomach growled.

Laughing, you patted him on the back. He permitted your hold to linger, your arm resting across his shoulders as you embarked into the throng, mindlessly stepping. Their stroll led them to a small bar tucked into an alley. A flickering sign with streaks of balding neon designates its name, but you paid it no mind and entered. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy, dimly lit with amber bulbs that cast a comforting glow over the wooden tables.

Passing a line of arcade games, you choose a spot near the front, on barstools that overlooked the street. Still, you were attracted to the machine’s blaring lights like a moth. You wanted a plush toy from the claw machine and knew that you, for some reason or another—due to a lack of skill or luck—would not receive it. As the eldest child, you were accustomed to sowing the seeds of desire yet and never reaping. But it was for the better; you were greedy and would demand more.

“What are you looking at?”

Sharply inhaling, you spun around to face him. Rian peered at you from behind his phone screen, then set it aside, face up.

“Nothing,” you said. “Those machines are really bright. It’s distracting.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, squinting. It really was blinding.

Settling at their table, Rian sank onto a stool, defeated. It creaked beneath his weight, and he winced.

“I’ll get us drinks,” said you, already rising.

His arm shot out in protest, wrapping around yoru wrist. “No, let me.”

With a huff, you tugged yourself free. “You invited me out, so it’s my treat.” Rian could not afford to squander his hard-earned cash on you.

“Isn’t it usually the other way?”

“Who cares? You’re getting free food. Don’t question my benevolence.”

Your bank account’s sum would dwindle, but someday, you’d make it back tenfold and treat Rian to something better than a shitty pub without even bothering to look at the price. This thought was your bleeding wallet’s only solace.

Reaching the bar, you ordered two pints. He swiftly delivered them from the tap. Cheering, you sipped at the froth spilling over the edge. You set a hefty glass before Rian and wiped your mouth on your shoulder.

“Sorry for the sudden call,” he abruptly said, his hands finding the security of his pockets as he spoke, “I just felt like seeing a friend today, and you’re as friendly as the lot gets.”

“No problem. I’m glad for the distraction. It feels like ages since we’ve last seen each other.”

“Yeah, really. Life gets busy. School, work, family… Between everything, It’s impossible to find a moment just to breathe.”

Not to mention how he juggled two part-time jobs, but Rian wasn’t one to complain.

Humming along, you traced the rim of your glass. You were vaguely aware that you should’ve gotten another to supplement living off of your mother’s income, but after last semester, you were reconsidering your ability to work and maintain your grades. At the very least, you’d work in the summer, and since your mother refused to take rent, would find other ways to help around the house. Maybe you should’ve already started looking for a co-op to boost your application for med school.

“It really is,” you said, shaking your head. “I thought so, too. I haven’t seen you or Connor in forever. I hate how, even though we attend the same university, it feels like we’re living in different worlds.”

Secondary school was unfounded hell, all seven layers of Dante’s inferno at once. While you didn’t recall those days fondly, you longed for its simplicity. There was a practiced ease to each day, comfort in only having to devote your time to your studies. Even now, you only had to focus on hitting the books and attending class, but because the responsibility to learn had fallen on you, you found your resolve wavering. Only the prospect of becoming filthy rich one day spurred your ambitions.

And grades too, you supposed. Most people claimed grades weren’t important, but those very same figures wouldn’t schedule appointments with a doctor who struggled through undergrad coursework. While it wouldn’t be evident upon entering an office, anyone could tell a doctor’s educational prowess through their conduct.

“Tell me about it,” you sighed, adjusting your glasses with a habitual motion. Your arm grazed the table on the way to your lap, stirring the contents of your cups. Your gaze was drawn to the rippling, amber liquid.

“Have you been keeping well with your studies?” Rian inquired.

“Trying to,” you said. You chuckled, a hollow, biting sound. “Can’t understand shit, but molecular biology isn't going to learn itself.”

“Speaking of misunderstandings,” Rian ventured cautiously, his fingers playing with the condensation on his glass. “Are you... I mean, I could be wrong, but from what I hear around campus, is there something going on between you and Cillian?”

The question struck you like a wave, causing you to inhale sharply. Your mouthful of beer went down the wrong pipe, and you choked, sputtering as you tried to regain your composure. Your eyes watered as you reached for a napkin, dabbing at your lips.

“Why would you ask that?” you managed to cough out. Bringing a hand up, you hit your chest, dislodging the liquid from your lungs.

Rian's gaze was steady, though not unkind, as he took a slow sip of his beer, buying a moment before answering. He set the glass down with a gentle thud, the sound muffled by the chatter and music surrounding them.

“I guess I’ve noticed how he's around you. It’s like… like he's always trying to keep close to you, you know?”

You studied Rian’s expression, noting the earnest furrow in his brow.

“No, we’re not anything. Only friends, and Cillian is just… complicated,” you began, voice trailing off as you searched for the right words. “But speaking of complicated,” you ventured with a cautious smile, “how are things with your girlfriend? I know you’re long-distance, but you haven’t talked about her in a while.”

Rian’s expression softened, but his eyes darted away for a moment before meeting yours again. He fiddled with the edge of a coaster, his fingers tracing the damp outline left by his beer glass.

“Ah, well, we haven’t spoken much lately,” he admitted, a note of shyness betraying his usual warmth. “It’s kind of on a pause, I guess. But it’s alright. Life's been busy. Busy, or maybe I’m not good at juggling.”

Sometimes, you thought Eve was a grand ploy invented by his madness. A girlfriend who lived in Malaysia and only met him through an exchange program last year? You didn’t recall meeting such a person, but supposedly, they struck up conversation because Rian was learning Indonesian, and they kept in contact to continue as language partners. It didn’t make sense to you, but what did you know? You were studying biomedical science, after all. You knew all the heart’s functions except for one.

“Really?” You responded with good-natured curiosity, though your mind was elsewhere. A buzz from under the table jolted you out of your reverie. You glanced down discreetly, the familiar ding of a text notification causing your heart to skip a beat. It was Cillian. Your fingertips brushed against the cold metal.

“Y/N?” Realizing your distraction, Rian’s brows knitted together.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, giving him an apologetic grin. “Just lost in thought for a second there.”

Another buzz, more insistent this time, sent a ripple of anxiety through you. You could almost hear Cillian’s voice in your head, his voice with each chime. Hey, hey, hey. Answer me. Why aren’t you picking up the phone? Your grip on the cup tightened.

Rian took a sip of his beer, his eyes not leaving your face. In the brief silence that followed, you were crushed beneath the weight of his unspoken questions, the air thickening as your phone continued like a beehive, its screen emitting a faint glow from beneath the cover of the table. You angled the device slightly, squinting to read the string of texts as you typed out a hurried response. Your thumb fumbled over the autocorrect suggestions, fingers flying too fast for your mind.

“Did I call you out at a bad time?” Rian leaned in, genuinely perplexed, the soft light casting shadows across his face. “You seem to be somewhere else.”

Embarrassment flushed your cheeks as you tucked the device away, hoping your smile might mask the sudden rush of guilt. “Ah, no, it's not that,” you managed to say, your voice a pitch higher than usual. “Brother’s home alone and doesn’t know how to cook. I’ll get him some Chinese after. You know how it is.”

Instead of answering, he shrugged and downed the rest of his glass’ contents in a single long gulp. Your heart clenched with gratitude. You offered a nod, a silent thank you, before redirecting the conversation to safer, shallower waters.

Across from you, Rian reached for his glass, the ice within clinking like a subtle chime. He took a slow swig to scoop any dregs into his mouth, chewed on a piece of ice, then set the glass down with measured care. His hand moved through the air as if to dismiss an irritating gnat.

“Summer brings all the pests,” he said, swatting at the air. “You shouldn’t bait flies. They’ve got germs and they’ll make you sick if they linger.”

Your mouth was dry. “I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.”

Hugging yourself, you watched the night drift past, viewing the crowd, pinpointing people to imagine the lives of. You spied yourself in the reflection, your image superimposed across the glass. Your lens reflected the light, making your eyes round discs.

What were you doing here? What were your goals with Rian?

He was always a joy to hang out with, but like all good things, he was received in moderation. He took just enough courses to be considered a full-time student and whenever he wasn’t committed to his studies, spent his precious free time trapped at a part-time job. His pay covered his tuition. His grandparents from the countryside sent him a meager allowance for food. Whenever they went out, he eyed the prices. He’d offer to pay at dinner, but no one ever permitted him to snag the check, knowing better than to take advantage of his needlessly giving nature. Without parents, he struggled more than a regular student ought to, so you tried to take care of him, the boy who was like the younger brother you’d always wanted. You weren’t doing a very good job, but Rian was nothing if not determined to squander his loyalty on someone like you.

You had sparse conversation, commenting on things between bites. While not particularly close with Rian, he was easy to read and transparent. You soon developed a good groove in the conversation, permitting it to falter when you finally lost interest. Otherwise, you ordered chips to eat in silence and neatly stacked the trays when finished. While you wiped the table down with a napkin, Rian discarded your trash in a rubbish bin.

Checking the time, you realized y ouhad been out for just over an hour. You could’ve extended the plans. You still had a small balance set aside for discretionary spending, but the week was yet to end, and you feared that Cillian might impose an abrupt photography session, which meant visiting a new resturaunt, which would be followed by a trip to his favorite cafe.

If you’d gone out with him instead of Rian tonight, you could’ve expected to extend the excursion by an hour and for your account to be wiped. He knew all the trendy, fashionable stores, and in the company of someone like him, you felt compelled to also look your best. You could do little about your physical appearance, so through fashion, it was.

On the way out, you passed by that claw machine again. You glanced longingly at the contents. Although the quality was questionable, the little duck perched atop the lot was adorable. You paused to stare at your reflection in the mirror. Your face looked puffy and beneath the harsh lights, the bags beneath your eyes visible. The breeze had died and the night air was humid, so baby hairs stuck to your forehead. Retrieving a clip from your purse, you stalled. You scooped the strands between your thumb and forefinger, attaching the clip. You laughed at yourself. Your bangs stuck up like a palm tree.

“So that’s what you were looking at,” said Rian, slotting himself at your side. His reflection joined yours. “Want me to win it for you?”

“No. It’s all luck, no skill.”

“That’s because you’re not skilled.”

“You know these things are practically scams, right? The claws are always too weak to grab anything.”

Rian’s lips curved into a smile, his features illuminated by the neon colors dancing across his face. “Maybe,” he conceded, tucking a stray lock of wavy hair behind his ear. “But it’s still worth a shot. What if I win you something?”

“Then I’ll be genuinely impressed.”

You winced when he inserted a bill. He maneuvered the claw around, eyeing an ugly thing. You stood at the side of the machine, eyeing his trajectory. The machine gave two turns with each payment. During the first, Rian managed to snag the creature. Seized by the head, it precariously wobbled before slipping out and falling back into place. The second was just as dismal.

Rian clicked his tongue. You begged him to stop, but he fed the machine bill after bill. He shrieked with every failed attempt, yet on on the eighth and final turn, the claw held fast and secured the creature. Your mouth fell open as the prize dangled precariously during its journey toward the drop chute, landing with a dull thud. It was still for a moment before he lifted the plexiglass and snatched it up.

“Yes! Did you see that? I beat the machine!”

Gripping it by the neck, he presented a scraggy bundle of coarse thread and lopsided proportions. You weren’t quite sure what it was meant to be. Similarly, it wasn’t the one you had your eye on earlier. Nevertheless, you profusely thanked his efforts and rewarded him with an awkward embrace.

“Let’s take a picture with your new friend there,” Rian begged. His phone, a device older than most, its screen littered with scratches, was already out of his pocket and in his hands. “I want to show off my skills.”

You grinned. “You’re going to brag about one measly win?”

“It made you smile. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

“No. It’s alright. It’s just one picture.”

You hugged the toy close to your chest to muffle the furious pounding of your heart as he snapped the photo. With its head skimming your cheek, you caught a whiff of its cardboard stench and felt a hole beneath one of the arms. The material was coarse against your cheek. You gritted your teeth and grinned. You wouldn’t complain because Rian was overjoyed to provide something for you, so you chewed your tongue.

Instead of the shoddy object, you reveled in the sentiment behind it, knowing your momentary happiness was worth losing out on several lunches because he valued you more than himself.

Backing up, Rian framed the shot with shaky hands. Just as the shutter clicked, someone jostled him from behind. With a grin, he turned the screen toward you, displaying your blurred visage.

“Rian, it’s all hazy,” you protested. The lights in the back were supernovas, streaky lines illuminating your silhouette. Your figure appeared smeared across them like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged, pocketing his phone without a second glance. “It’s just a picture of us—well, you and the… Whatever the fuck the ugly thing is. I know you’ll love it. You’ve got this way of loving things no one else could.”

You would. You had to, because no one else would offer the care you did.

You could’ve deluded yourself into feeling special, but it was all for show. He was smiles and kindness, yet above all, Rian was desperate to keep others at his side as if they were pieces of art to be displayed. Such was natural for people of his nature; those who were alone and despised the fact would always try to appear otherwise, and at all costs. Rian would toil and squander his precious time and money to please you, because if he didn’t no one else would. He was an indispensable person, eager to assert his value. That was his sense of selfishness.

Knowing all that, would you still plead for the stupid toy again? Of course, and without delay. The harsh truth to the world was that that happiness could only be achieved through vanity. Humans were vain and selfish; no person was inherently selfless. Those that were, were without good reason.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere oc #yandere male #cillian

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flagbridge · 10 months

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The Raoul (de Chagny) Navy: An Exploration of the Vicomte's Naval Background:

Our beloved Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny, is a young junior officer in the French Navy ("le Royale"), but this hardly gets much exploration. It's a detail that is often glossed over--I anticipate because Naval historians and Phans often do not have much Venn diagram overlap--until now. Let's just say my username is a Naval reference.

Note: the "Raoul Navy" is not my invention--our hilarious and wise "Phantom Dark Web" friends at Leroux Less Traveled (incl. @box5intern) came up with it, and I love it.

I've started digging into book Raoul and his Naval background and turns out we are missing out a whole lot about Raoul's character background if we don't dig into it. So I'm going to tell you what the book tells us and what that means. I'm going to give you the overall pieces up front, and then explain:

Raoul looks very young and feminine (except for his "little" mustache, which he effectively has grown to prove that he can)--and everyone treats him like a baby

Raoul at this point has already completed three years of Naval training including a world tour, so he is fairly experienced and even worldly for his age. He is described in the French as a "cadet", but he would likely be a sub-lieutenant at this point since he has graduated from the Naval Academy.

He's on a six month leave before going on a very dangerous mission to recover remains of a lost Arctic mission--a mission he himself is unlikely to return from.

And everyone still treats him like he's a baby (especially the old dowager widows), even though he has had quite a bit of life at this point--so he has something to prove.

What we know about Raoul and the Navy (Here is the English):

"He was admirably assisted in this work first by his sisters and afterward by an old aunt, the widow of a naval officer, who lived at Brest and gave young Raoul a taste for the sea. The lad entered the Borda training-ship, finished his course with honors and quietly made his trip round the world. Thanks to powerful influence, he had just been appointed a member of the official expedition on board the Requin, which was to be sent to the Arctic Circle in search of the survivors of the D'Artois expedition, of whom nothing had been heard for three years. Meanwhile, he was enjoying a long furlough which would not be over for six months; and already the dowagers of the Faubourg Saint-Germain were pitying the handsome and apparently delicate stripling for the hard work in store for him."

We also learn in another paragraph that the de Chagnys had admiral in the family, so the Naval connection is likely a family business for second sons. Raoul is a second son, so a career as a military officer would have been a distinguished career for him.

Borda: First ship

Brest is the main port of the French Navy and home of the Ecole Navale (or French Naval Academy. In the 20th Century it moved, but Brest is still, along with Toulon, a major naval base)

According to the French: Le jeune homme entra au Borda, en sortit dans les premiers numéros et accomplit tranquillement son tour du monde (Note that the French calls him a "young man", not a lad)

The Borda is traditionally the training ship of the French Navy, and there have been six of them. This would have been a cadet/midshipman cruise for Raoul. He would have been on the ex-Valmy, an 120-gun ship of the line, which became the Borda training ship in 1864.

The Borda is also the ship of the Ecole Navale (French Naval Academy)—this means that Raoul attended the academy.

The Naval Academy is two years in Brest, and then their third year is the World Tour—so that timing also aligns with where we are in the book. Raoul would have begun at the academy at 18, and he is at the start of the book, 21 years old.

After the Borda, which he completed with honors, he did an uneventful world tour.

This would have been his third year, still as a midshipman.

He could have been assigned to any ship for this training cruise—possibly a cruiser (the d'Estang is pictured below in 1884 in Algiers), which did long range missions. Note: Their max speed was about 15 Knots (which is a very respectable speed that some warships still transit).

This world tour cold have been as far east as what is now Vietnam, or through the Suez--but likely near French colonies.

With influence, he is assigned to the Requin expedition.

French: Grâce à de puissants appuis, il venait d'être désigné pour faire partie de l'expédition officielle du Requin, qui avait mission de rechercher dans les glaces du pôle les survivants de l'expédition du d'Artois, dont on n'avait pas de nouvelles depuis trois ans.

The Requin was a real ship in the Mediterranean fleet, but did not go on its first mission until 1885, which means that this is a deliberate or unintentional oversight of either Leroux himself or his narrator. The Requin was a steel hull—and the Artois was actually a 18th century Royal Navy ship so this piece is a complete fabrication. However, Arctic missions at this time were frequent and tended not to go well.

However, Raoul could also be excited about getting to go on a new steel-hulled ship. The Redoutable was already in commission—commissioned in 1876. Most of the rest of the fleet at this point were ironclads.

#naval history #phantom of the opera #raoul de chagny #vicomte de chagny #amwriting #phandom #military history #warships #poto #gaston leroux #the raoul navy #french navy #le royale #raoul navy

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artyandink · 22 days

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amoralism | fourteen

SUMMARY: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Dean’s the mole, the Sucide Squad formation and it being a train wreck, a bit of family problems, angst

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: Tears of Gold - Faouzia

chauvinism

The mission had been in the works for two long, grueling weeks, and it still felt like a long shot.

You, Sam, Bobby, and the so-called "Suicide Squad" had spent hours in the Bureau's underground briefing room, a place so buried under layers of concrete and steel that cell reception was a distant memory. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale coffee, sweat, and stress—everyone had been pulling double shifts, and no one was more wired than you. The clock was ticking. Dean’s files were being held under lock and key by Raphael Deacon, the Director of the FBI, and a man with more power than the President on his worst days.

But the files—Dean's files—were the key to everything. They held the proof, the answers. The only way to clear Dean's name or understand why he had betrayed you all. You needed those files, and there was only one way to get them: a heist.

It sounded absurd, like something out of a bad spy movie, but it was the only plan anyone had that made sense. Bobby had been pacing the front of the room, whiteboard behind him filled with diagrams, maps, and hastily scribbled notes as the rest of the team crowded around.

“We go in quick, we go in quiet,” Bobby muttered, pulling the cap off a dry-erase marker with his teeth and slashing another line across the board. “We got exactly one window where Deacon’s gonna be out of his office, and that’s when we make our move.”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the tension building in your chest. You’d been part of risky ops before, but this? This was borderline suicide.

“You really think we can pull this off?” you asked, glancing at Sam next to you. His brow was furrowed, a hand running through his long hair as he scrutinized the plan for any weakness.

“We don’t have a choice,” he said quietly, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the only way we find out what’s really going on with Dean.”

His words weighed heavily on you. It had been weeks since you last saw Dean, and the encounter had shaken you to your core. You hadn’t spoken to anyone about it—especially not Sam. You swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts of Dean to the back of your mind. Focus. You needed to focus.

Across the table, Charlie Bradbury was furiously typing away on her laptop, her fingers moving faster than you thought was humanly possible. “Okay, okay, I think I’ve got it,” she said, her voice cutting through the room. “I’ve hacked into the security system. We’ve got a thirty-second delay between when a breach happens and when it gets reported. That’s our window.”

John Winchester, his arms folded over his chest, grunted from his spot near the back of the room. He hadn’t said much throughout the planning—just his typical gruff one-liners about security, strategy, and how this was a fool’s errand. But when he spoke, everyone listened.

“And what happens if we miss that window?” John asked, his voice low, but enough to send a ripple of unease through the group.

“We don’t miss it,” Bobby snapped, glaring at John. “We can’t afford to miss it.”

Rufus Turner, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, gave a lazy grin. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. Haven’t done a good ol' heist in years.”

Next to him, Agent Jack Kline, the youngest member of the team, looked more nervous than excited. He had the look of a deer caught in the headlights, but he was trying to mask it with a look of determination.

Mick Davies, sharp as ever in his suit, spoke up next. “What’s our exit plan? We can’t just waltz out of the building with federal files in hand. Deacon’s got eyes everywhere.”

Bobby paused, pacing again, his boots heavy on the floor. “We’ll split up. Create enough chaos that no one knows what’s happening until we’re gone. Charlie, you’ll jam the internal comms, give us time to slip out without alerting the entire Bureau.”

Garth chimed in, tapping his chin. “And what about disguises? We can’t exactly stroll in looking like this.” He gestured down at his casual clothes.

“That’s where I come in,” Mick said, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve got some connections. We’ll have uniforms. FBI suits, maintenance workers, delivery personnel. The whole nine yards.”

“Sounds like a damn circus,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your temples.

Bobby shot you a look. “We’re working with what we’ve got.”

The plan was as convoluted as they came—deceit, manipulation, distraction, and everything in between. There was no room for error. One slip, one wrong move, and the entire operation would be over before it even began. But you were in too deep now. Backing out wasn’t an option.

The day arrived sooner than any of you were ready for. You could feel the tension in the air as the team gathered in the Bureau's underground garage. Everyone was dressed to play their parts—uniforms, IDs, all fake but polished enough to pass a casual inspection.

You tugged at the stiff collar of your maintenance jumpsuit, feeling out of place but determined. Sam, standing next to you, adjusted the lapels on his fake FBI suit, his eyes scanning the group.

“Everyone know their role?” Bobby asked, his voice hard as he gave one final look at the team.

Charlie was the first to respond. “I’ll be in the van, controlling the security feed and hacking the system as we go. If anything goes wrong, you’ll know because all hell will break loose.”

John, dressed as a janitor, grunted his agreement. “I’ll make sure the halls are clear.”

Garth, in his delivery uniform, gave a thumbs up. “I’m your distraction. Trust me, I’ve got this.”

Mick and Jack were already in character, blending in seamlessly with the handful of actual Bureau agents milling about the garage. It was showtime.

The mission began like clockwork. Mick and Jack were the first inside, walking through the front entrance with forged IDs and briefcases in hand. They passed the metal detectors, nodding at the guards with an air of confidence that only agents from another division could pull off.

Meanwhile, you, Sam, John, and Garth entered through the back, where maintenance workers were busy hauling in cleaning supplies and equipment. John’s hard glare kept anyone from asking questions. The man had a presence that made you glad he was on your side.

Charlie’s voice came through the earpiece in your ear. “Alright, you’re clear for now. Thirty seconds until the first security sweep. Move fast.”

Your heart pounded as you made your way through the narrow back corridors, trying to keep your footsteps light despite the rush of adrenaline in your veins. Sam was right behind you, his eyes darting between you and the path ahead.

As you rounded a corner, you caught sight of Raphael Deacon’s office—a heavy wooden door guarded by two agents. Garth was already in place, wheeling a large cart of ‘deliveries’ toward the door. You watched as he fumbled with the boxes, pretending to lose his balance.

“Oh no, shoot! Sorry, fellas, can you give me a hand here?” Garth asked, flashing his best disarming smile.

The guards, caught off guard by the seemingly harmless delivery guy, bent down to help him, just as John slipped past them into the restricted hallway unnoticed.

“Ten seconds,” Charlie’s voice warned. “You better move fast.”

John reappeared moments later, his expression tense as he gave the signal.

The door to Deacon’s office clicked open.

Inside, Raphael Deacon’s office was as imposing as you expected. The walls were lined with bookshelves, legal documents, and awards, but the real prize was the locked cabinet at the back of the room. Dean’s files were inside. Somewhere.

You rushed to the cabinet with Sam while John kept watch. Time was ticking. You grabbed the small lock-picking kit Mick had given you, your fingers trembling as you worked the lock. The seconds felt like hours as you concentrated, sweat beading on your forehead.

“Come on,” Sam muttered beside you, glancing toward the door.

Click.

The lock gave way, and you swung the cabinet doors open. Inside, stacks of files lay neatly arranged, but it only took you a second to spot the one marked with Dean’s name. You grabbed it, stuffing it into your bag just as Charlie’s voice cut through the comms again.

“We’ve got a problem. Security’s onto us. They’re not buying Garth’s act anymore.”

“Time to go,” John grunted, pulling you and Sam toward the exit.

The building was already buzzing with movement as you slipped back into the maintenance hallways, but just as planned, the chaos was enough to keep most of the agents off your trail. Garth had done his job.

Back in the garage, Charlie was already in the van, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they realize what’s missing. Let’s go!”

Everyone piled into the van as it sped away, the sound of sirens blaring in the distance. You sat back, heart racing, the weight of the stolen file heavy in your hands.

It was a victory. But as you caught Sam’s eye, you both knew this was just the beginning. The contents of the file would tell you everything—or nothing. Either way, there was no turning back now.

The mission was chaotic, convoluted, and dangerous. But somehow, against all odds, you had pulled it off.

Now came the hard part.

The adrenaline from the mission was still pumping through your veins as the van sped down the back roads, far away from the FBI headquarters. Charlie, behind the wheel, navigated the narrow streets with sharp precision, while the rest of the team sat in tense silence. The stolen file, Dean’s file, sat heavy in your lap, the weight of its contents unknown, but it was the key to everything.

You looked over at Sam. His eyes were fixed on the folder, a mix of worry and determination etched on his face. Bobby sat across from you, arms crossed, looking out the window. John was muttering to himself in the back corner, probably going over every tactical mistake you all might have made. Garth, still in his delivery uniform, was looking out the window with a goofy grin as if the whole operation had been some kind of field trip. Mick, ever the polished MI6 agent, looked almost too calm, while Jack sat quietly, fiddling nervously with his hands.

The van rattled as Charlie took a sharp turn, and you tightened your grip on the file.

“So, what now?” Charlie asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “We just crack open this bad boy and hope for the best?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said with a grunt, shifting in his seat. “But not here. Too many eyes around. We need a safe spot.”

Sam finally spoke up. “We can go to my place. Jess is out of town visiting family, and it’s secure.”

You nodded. “Sam’s right. Let’s go there. We can regroup, figure out what’s in this file, and plan our next move.”

The ride to Sam’s place felt longer than it should have, despite the fact that it was only about twenty minutes away. The tension in the van was thick, and you could tell everyone was on edge. After the chaos of the heist, it was hard to believe you’d actually pulled it off. But as much as you wanted to feel victorious, you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Dean was out there somewhere, possibly on the run, possibly still with the syndicate. Or worse, maybe he was exactly what the files would say he was. The thought sent a chill down your spine. After everything, after all the years you’d known him—had Dean really betrayed you all?

Charlie pulled up in front of Sam’s house, parking the van in the driveway. Everyone piled out, and you all made your way inside. Sam’s place was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of stillness that made the atmosphere feel heavier than it should’ve been.

Sam locked the door behind him, and the group settled in the living room. You sat down on the couch, the file still in your hands, and the rest of the team gathered around.

Bobby leaned forward, eyeing the file like it was some kind of dangerous artifact. “Well, kiddo,” he said, looking at you, “you gonna do the honors?”

You glanced around the room, feeling the weight of everyone’s anticipation. Your hands shook slightly as you undid the clasp on the folder, opening it to reveal the contents inside.

There were several thick documents, each stamped with confidential seals and the unmistakable insignia of the FBI. You sifted through them quickly, scanning for something, anything that would make sense of this madness. There were surveillance reports, witness statements, memos—all detailing Dean’s activities over the last year.

Your eyes caught on one page in particular, a detailed report from Raphael Deacon himself. You skimmed it, your pulse quickening as you read the words:

"Subject: Dean Winchester – Special Agent, suspected mole within the FBI, believed to be in contact with syndicate leader Lucifer. Operative is highly skilled, with extensive knowledge of Bureau protocol. Unclear how deeply involved he is with the organization, but intelligence suggests infiltration may have been premeditated…"

You swallowed hard, passing the page to Sam. His brow furrowed as he read it, a deep frown forming on his face.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Sam muttered, flipping through the pages. “Dean wouldn’t do this.”

John scoffed from the back of the room. “You sure about that, Sam? People can change. And sometimes, they don’t turn out to be who you think they are.”

Sam shot him a glare. “Dean wouldn’t betray the Bureau. Not like this.”

You stayed silent, your mind reeling as you tried to make sense of everything. The reports, the surveillance footage, the classified memos—they all painted a picture of Dean as a double agent. But something wasn’t adding up. Dean was reckless sometimes, sure, but he wasn’t a traitor.

“We need to dig deeper,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “There has to be something we’re missing.”

Charlie leaned over, scanning the files over your shoulder. “There’s a lot of redacted information here. They’re definitely hiding something.”

“Could be a cover-up,” Bobby mused. “Deacon ain’t exactly a trustworthy son of a bitch.”

“Then why’d Dean run?” Jack asked, his voice quiet. “If he’s innocent, why hasn’t he come back?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I don’t believe for a second that Dean’s in on this. Not fully.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. “We need more information. Something solid. These files... they’re not enough.”

Mick spoke up for the first time in a while, his voice smooth but thoughtful. “Perhaps there’s a lead we can follow. If Dean’s gone dark, there must be a way to trace his movements. Off-the-books contacts, safe houses, something he would’ve used to stay hidden.”

Rufus, who had been oddly quiet until now, nodded. “Dean ain’t dumb. He’d know how to cover his tracks. But he might’ve left a trail for someone who knows how to look.”

You stood up, pacing the room as the ideas swirled in your mind. Every second that passed felt like you were running out of time, like Dean was slipping further away.

“Charlie, can you dig into these files, see what’s been redacted and maybe trace where this intel came from?” you asked, knowing full well that if anyone could break through encrypted data, it was her.

She gave you a thumbs-up. “Already on it.”

Sam rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion evident on his face. “We should keep looking for leads, but I agree with you. Something’s off about all of this. Dean wouldn’t just run unless he had no other choice.”

The thought of Dean being out there, alone, possibly in danger, made your heart ache. You hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that there was more to this story. But the mission wasn’t over yet.

The prison was cold. It always was. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. As you made your way down the long, sterile corridor, your footsteps echoed against the hard concrete floors, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic, lonely sound. The guard leading you said nothing, his face impassive as he swiped his keycard to open another set of heavy metal doors.

It wasn’t your first visit here. You’d been coming to see Eleanor, your mother, for years now. But no matter how many times you passed through the gates, through the searches and the checkpoints, it never got easier. You felt the weight of it all pressing down on your chest with every step you took.

And today, it felt even heavier.

Your mind was a whirlwind of questions, of uncertainties. The mission had been chaotic, the files had been convoluted, and worst of all, Dean was missing. A mole. An alleged traitor. But none of it made sense. None of it fit with the Dean you knew. You hoped that your mother, with her past connections to the criminal underworld, might be able to shed some light on the situation.

The guard finally stopped in front of a small, enclosed room—a visiting room. "Five minutes," he said gruffly, as though the kindness of a full hour was something prisoners rarely deserved. He unlocked the door, then gestured for you to enter. You nodded and stepped inside.

Eleanor was already sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression as calm and composed as ever. She had that air about her, even in prison. A woman who had lived through chaos and come out the other side unbroken. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, streaks of gray more prominent now than they had been the last time you saw her.

When she looked up and met your eyes, her face softened, just a little.

"Hey, kid," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that you hadn’t expected.

"Mom." You managed a small smile, pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down. You placed your hands on the table, feeling the cold surface beneath your fingers, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to figure out how to start.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it never had been with Eleanor. She was patient, observant. She had a way of waiting you out, of letting you come to her when you were ready.

You glanced up at her and took a deep breath. "I need to ask you something."

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed slightly. She tilted her head, her hands still resting lightly on the table. "What is it?"

"It’s about Dean," you said, the words feeling heavy as they left your mouth.

Her expression didn’t change much, but you could see the flicker of concern behind her eyes. "Dean Winchester?" she asked slowly.

You nodded, your heart racing. "Yeah. There’s been… something’s happened, and I need to know if he’s involved with the syndicate."

Eleanor blinked, clearly taken aback. She leaned back in her chair slightly, her eyes scanning your face for answers that weren’t yet spoken. "Dean?" she repeated, almost incredulous. "Dean Winchester is involved with the syndicate? The same syndicate I used to run with?"

"That’s what I’m trying to figure out," you admitted, your voice quiet. "There’s a file, reports… all pointing to him being a mole inside the FBI, working with them."

Eleanor looked at you for a long moment, her gaze unblinking. And then, almost abruptly, she let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No, that doesn’t make any sense."

"I know it doesn’t," you replied, feeling a mixture of frustration and desperation rise up in your chest. "But it’s there. His name’s all over the files. They have surveillance, they have witness accounts—everything points to Dean."

Your mother’s brow furrowed, her fingers tapping lightly on the table as she considered your words. "I knew Dean," she said finally, her voice steady, as though she was sorting through facts in her mind. "I worked with a lot of people who were mixed up in some dark stuff, but Dean? He wasn’t one of them."

You leaned forward, pressing her. "But could he have been involved without you knowing? Maybe something happened after you were arrested. Something that pulled him in."

Eleanor shook her head firmly. "I don’t believe it. Dean’s a lot of things, but he’s not reckless. And he’s not stupid. Getting involved with the syndicate? That’s a death sentence. And it’s not something he could’ve hidden easily, even from me."

You stared at her, trying to make sense of it all. "But what if… what if they forced him? Or what if he’s been playing both sides, working undercover?"

She leaned forward, her gaze sharp now. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low but intense. "If Dean was involved in the syndicate, I’d know. They don’t operate in a vacuum. Everyone knows everyone. And if Dean was in that system, his name would’ve come up long before now. You said there’s a file on him? Well, I can tell you one thing: Dean’s name isn’t in any of their systems."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had been hoping, deep down, that she could give you some insight, some hidden piece of the puzzle that would make everything click into place. But instead, it only raised more questions.

"Then why are they saying it’s him?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Eleanor’s eyes softened slightly. "It sounds like someone’s setting him up. They’re using his name, his reputation, to cover their own tracks. And you need to figure out who’s behind it."

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. Could it be true? Could someone really be framing Dean, manipulating the FBI into thinking he was the mole?

"But why?" you asked, more to yourself than to Eleanor. "Why would they choose Dean?"

"Because he’s good at what he does," she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. "And because they know that if you believe he’s guilty, no one will question it. Not even you."

The words stung, but you couldn’t deny the truth in them. If someone was framing Dean, they were doing a damn good job of it. And they knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you doubt everything you thought you knew.

You looked down at the table, your hands clenched into fists. "I don’t know what to do," you admitted, your voice small and defeated.

Eleanor reached out, placing her hand on top of yours. "You do what you always do," she said gently. "You dig. You find the truth. And you don’t stop until you have it."

You nodded, the resolve slowly returning to your chest. She was right. There was still a lot you didn’t know, but you couldn’t stop now. Dean’s life—his reputation—was at stake, and you couldn’t let him go down without a fight.

"Thank you," you said, meeting her eyes. "I’m sorry to have dragged you into this."

She smiled softly, squeezing your hand. "You’re my kid. You don’t need to apologize for coming to me for help."

The guard knocked on the door then, signaling the end of your visit. You stood, feeling the weight of the conversation still heavy on your shoulders. As the guard escorted you out, you glanced back at Eleanor one last time. She gave you a nod, her eyes filled with the kind of strength you always admired in her.

As the doors closed behind you, the coldness of the prison faded, but the uncertainty lingered. Dean wasn’t in the syndicate. You were sure of it now. But that meant someone else was pulling the strings—someone powerful enough to frame him, to make you doubt him.

You stepped outside into the crisp air, your mind still racing. There was more to uncover, more pieces of the puzzle to find. And now, you had to figure out how to put them together before it was too late.

Because Dean’s life depended on it.

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acaptainbyanyothername · 9 days

Text

The Midst cosmos is weird, right?

A gravity that spans the entire cosmos, allowing someone to theoretically drop from the Un to the Fold? An ocean of darkness with a mono-directional current? What is the gravitational source? Where does the current come from and go? These questions are not answered with the current cosmic hypotheses you may have seen illustrated in appendices. What if there was more to the cosmos that explained these questions, something that our lovely in-canon scientists have no way of knowing?

(All the credit to @druidposting for churning out these thoughts with me and teaching me about marshes. These theories are as much their brainchild as mine).

Bernhard and Gottle, this is my pitch to join your research team. Say hello to the Theorized Diagram of the Complete Midst Cosmos (a 2d vertical cross-section of the 3-dimensional cosmos):

You may be surprised. You may be off-put. “What the fuck is this?” is the scientific inquiry you may be posing. Never fear— explanations and mad ravings to be found under the cut

The Three Components of the Cosmos

The three components in the cosmos you see represented in the diagram are the Un, the Fold, and a theorized Un-like space below the Fold monikered as “????” for convenience’s sake.

The Fold’s Gravity

The Fold is the gravitational center of the cosmos— the reason why if a Phineas jumps from the Un, he is pulled down toward the Fold

This is because the Fold is a large enough body of matter that its center of mass has a strong enough gravitational pull to affect the Un

The Fold orbits its center of mass in an ellipse, which explains a) why denizens on this cosmos see its surface as something akin to a flat ocean (it is so massive that it would appear that way without the full perspective) and b) why light and the horizon seem to break down in a location such as the Delta, the point of the greatest bend in orbit

With the Fold being an ovoid, that then creates a hypotheses for an Un-Fold space to exist all around the Fold! After all, the “Un” is simply where the Fold is not. The Un therefore is not just above the Fold, as we already know from Midst-canon, but also below it (above and below are of course relative terms when dealing with gravity, but for ease of communication “above” refers to the top of the diagram and “below” refers to the bottom). This “below” space is referred to as “????” in the diagram.

Though it is important to note that the Un is not empty— it has breathable air, as does the Fold! The primary difference are the microscopic Foldlet molecules that make up the Fold, causing it to be slightly denser than the Un and therefore more amassed around the core

Think of the Fold almost as like a gas-giant planet! A huge source of gravity comprised mainly of a gaseous substance that has huge influence over its surrounding area!

Therefore, to continue this analogy, the Un is essentially the gas giant’s outer atmosphere

The ???? Area

So to recap, ???? is a theoretical area of the cosmos that no one within the canon of Midst knows about. It is similar to the Un in that there is a lack of Fold there.

What is the ???? like? Does it have mica? What does it look like? The unfortunate answer is I do not know. Your guess is as good as mine. Here’s what questions I CAN ANSWER THOUGH:

Why don’t the scientists of the Midst-canon know/theorize the existence of the ???? space? Well, imagine it this way: if you were in the Arctic, and the only way you could get to Antarctica was by tunneling through the Earth’s core, you would probably not know of Antartica’s existence either.

Anyone who would attempt to travel from the Un to the ???? would be forced to go right through/by the core of the Fold, aka its gravitational source. That intense of gravity is not survivable! You’re a pancake now, a pancake who doesn’t know there’s anything beyond this. The red dotted line of the diagram demarcates the known cosmos of Midst-canon.

(Side tangent, this is why the Fold is perceived as something more akin to an ocean in Midst-canon: there’s no way to go through it and see the whole picture that it’s a sphere. Even though the gravitational pressure drastically increases the further down you go into it, that is confused with the Midst-version of deep sea pressure!)

If you WERE to travel to the ???? area, you would still perceive the Fold as below you! That is because the perception of “down” is relative to the direction of gravity, and the direction of gravity is still pointed towards the core of the Fold

The Delta’s Cosmic Purpose

Here is where I ESPECIALLY gotta shout out my amazing co-researcher @druidposting. Mirrorhawk dip’s on me for this amazing cosmological thinking.

The Delta acts as a marsh to the greater ecosystem of the Fold! In essence, the marsh accumulates muck and detritus, but due to their good water outflow they end up serving as an excellent water cleanser— the water comes out on the other side remarkably clean!

That’s what purpose the Delta serves, but instead of water it filters tearror systems

The Fold’s Current

So the Fold flows from the Fount down to the Delta, mucking itself up in the process. The Delta accumulates the sediment of old tearror systems, but also filters the Fold so that it runs pure and clean out the other end

The current essentially orbits around the core of the Fold— once the Fold is purified by the Delta, it circles around until it’s on the ???? side. This newly purified Fold fresh from the Delta therefore acts as the Fount for the ???? side. A reverse Fount, if you will.

The process rinses and repeats on the ???? side— the Fold flows from the reverse Fount, mucks itself up, then is purified again in the reverse-Delta, where it then makes its way up to be the source of the Fount as the Midst-canon characters know it!

Therefore, it only LOOKS mono-directional with no end or beginning from a top-down view— really it makes a full circle loop!

That’s all I’m willing to type out today! There are still so many things to be explored— what is this theoretical ???? space like? How do measly isletary gravitational pulls overpower the much larger pull of the Fold? How do things float in the Fold?

Bernhard and Gottle, if you give me grant money more research can be put into answering these questions. Bernhard and Gottle please give me grant money. Please. Please. PLEASE—

#midst #Moonward #@Bernhard and Gottle: u up?

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anistarrose · 4 months

Text

So the thing is, if people ship characters who are explicitly not into romance (whether aromantic or otherwise), that ultimately doesn't affect me on a level beyond "annoyance" — I can blacklist tags, and blacklist or block people who don't tag it. What I have to ask myself every time I see these things, however, is this:

"Does this reflect how this person feels about romance-averse people in real life? Does this reflect how this person treats romance-averse people in real life?"

Because how someone engages with fiction doesn't have to be a reflection of how they treat real people, obviously — and in this case, I would of course hope that it isn't. But if you know anything about what being aromantic is like, in real life or on the Internet... you'll understand why I'm not optimistic.

Thinking two characters are so cute together that you reject a bunch of their characterization to make it happen is just annoying, not a crime! But the second you make the leap to telling a real human person things like:

"I don't care how much you say you're not interested, because you just won't realize that you and X would make such a cute couple,"

or:

"I don't care how much you say you're not interested, because you're clearly just in denial which the Right Person has to come along and fix,"

or:

"But — but — but not falling in love is just so tragic! I want you to be happy, not sad and lonely your whole life!"

like the rationales that apparently motivate so many people to ship? Then that has crossed the line into harming real people.

I don't actually think that shipping aromantic characters is the primary cause in the cause-effect diagram, when it comes to the correlating the shipping with "likelihood to say these terrible, invalidating, autonomy-undermining things to real people." Precisely, I don't think it's a cause to a meaningful degree when you compare with the opposite direction — I think people who say these things to real aromantics (or anyone else who just isn't interested!), because of what they think about these real people, are in turn more likely to think amatonormative things about fictional characters. I think that there exists a feedback loop to some extent, because fiction can influence people's beliefs to some degree, but it's not symmetric. Real-life amatonormativity causes mass amatonormativity in fandom spaces.

So... at this point, do you see why aromantic people in fandom get a little defensive about aro characters, and about other characters who overlap with aro experiences? You see why we get kind of pissy when people very selectively throw a very specific part of their characterization out the window? You see why we maybe don't want to associate with those people? Why it makes us so uncomfortable?

"Stop shipping romance-repulsed characters," in my opinion, is a understandable outcry from the community that I obviously sympathize with — but it nevertheless conceals the core of the issue, especially from non-aromantics who aren't living with amatonormativity shoved down their throats at all times, and therefore might not be able to read between the lines. At the core, this isn't actually a debate about the morality of shipping in fiction, despite overlap with that discourse on the surface.

The real cry for change isn't "stop shipping that character." It's "start accepting me for who I am, without trying to either undermine or mourn it at every opportunity." Because at the moment, the overlap between people who erase fictional aromanticism and real aromanticism is significant — and even where they don't overlap, you know what? Romance-averse folks just trying to live in peace can't fucking tell the difference.

#amatonormativity #no one asked for my thoughts on this but i have thoughts that i've never seen spelled out explicitly by anyone else. sorry #i'll get back on the aro positivity posting grind by the time the clock ticks over into pride month in my timezone i promise

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bestworstcase · 1 month

Text

THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN it's a draw let's talk about the principles.

In the rulebook for The Lady Afterwards, these are defined as "the most fundamental elements of reality; or, the various natures of the Hours; or, a post-facto invention of scholars of the invisible arts." Mark that third note in particular, because the aspects we discuss herein are—expressly—only an attempt to taxonomize the occult forces at work in the world and thus necessarily an imperfect and imprecise model thereof.

Keep this in mind. There are no clean dividing lines between the principles, and what we label (for example) 'Lantern' and 'Forge' are not, in reality, discrete individual forces but rather a cluster of interacting forces, patterns, rules et cetera which may be expressed or called upon in different ways at different times. Many seeming contradictions or inconsistencies are thus resolved.

With that out of the way:

The interaction most visible to the player is of course the Cultist Simulator 'subversion' mechanic, but I think it is also elucidating to consider 1. differing categorization of certain books shared between Cultist Simulator and Book of Hours, and 2. the principle aspects associated with each of the nine parts of the soul in the latter.

Before we dive into that, a note on 'Secret Histories' and 'Rose':

History is the scar on the world's skin. [Secret Histories describe the unknown complexities of the world, and its many pasts.] vs 'The rose which encompasseth all'. Nine directions to new horizons. [Exploration? Enlightenment? Hope?]

It is evident that Secret Histories and Rose have some relation and may even be synonymous to an extent—for instance, Dr. al-Adim is interested in the former in Cultist Simulator and the latter in Book of Hours—but Secret Histories notably isn't treated like a fully-realized principle in its own right, whereas Rose is mechanically indistinguishable from any other power. What's going on here?

Well, if Rose is the aspect 'which encompasseth all', then we might describe Rose as the skin; and therefore what we call Secret Histories are the scars or the flaws which inform the principle called Rose, in effect making Secret Histories not a principle in its own right, but rather an aspect of Rose.

So for the purpose of this discussion, I will refer only to 'Rose', even with regard to entities and things with Secret Histories aspect in Cultist Simulator. I believe the relation here is comparable to the relation between, for example, Heart and Dances.

Onward!

I have made a series of diagrams. First:

We begin with a wheel representing the order in which the Cultist may subvert lore and influences from one principle to the next, beginning with Lantern at the top and proceeding clockwise; into Forge, into Edge, into Winter, into Heart, into Grail, into Moth, into Lantern. Knock, placed at the wheel's center, cannot be subverted and subverts every other lore except Rose into itself.

Note the larger gap between Moth and Lantern. My reason for arranging the principles this way will become apparent shortly.

For ease of reference, here is a spreadsheet comparing the principles associated with every text that appears in both Cultist Simulator and Book of Hours. In cases where the text's mystery aspect does not match the lore fragment(s) it yields in the first game, I've noted the skill and memory as well.

This is a simple way to demonstrate the 'fuzziness' of the principles, noted at the beginning of this post.

In cases where the principle lore yielded by texts in Cultist Simulator differs from the text's mystery aspect in Book of Hours and the mystery aspect is not one of the newly-introduced aspects, generally speaking, the lessons the Librarian learns will match both; for example, 'The Six Letters on Memory' yields Forge lore in CS, but has Moth as its mystery in BoH, and the Librarian learns a lesson in Transformations & Liberations, a skill whose primary/secondary aspects are Forge and Moth.

The one notable exception is Sunset Passages. In Cultist Simulator, this text yields Winter lore; in Book of Hours, its mystery aspect is Forge, and it provides a lesson in Sacra Solis Invicti (Lantern/Sky). In order to understand the re-categorization of this text, we must consider its subject matter: it is a "miscellany of the funerary prayers, ceremonies, and hymns of the Church of the Unconquered Sun," which "schismed during the Intercalate, when the Sun was divided." It is thus concerned primarily with pre-Intercalate worship of the Madrugad, whose aspects are Winter and Forge, and the skill the Librarian learns from it pertains to those rituals.

Sunset Passages thus serves as a useful illustration of how and why certain texts may be categorized differently between the two games. It is not arbitrary. It's a mechanical representation of the taxonomic 'fuzziness' in that the Cultist can read a certain book and conclude that it's a volume of Winter lore whereas the Librarian can read the same book and categorize it as a book of mainly Forge lore with some relevance to Lantern and Sky, and both are correct, although the Librarian, being a scholar rather than an adept, takes a more nuanced view.

The point being that we can look at those texts which have been reassigned to one of the four/five aspects introduced in Book of Hours as a rough approximation of common relations between those aspects and the ones in the earlier game.

We'll use Moon as an example.

Kanishk at the Spider's Door — Edge lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Sharps (Edge/Moon) — Memory is A Stolen Secret (Moon/Knock)

Larquebine Codex — Heart lore -> Moon Mystery — Lesson is Sea Stories (Moon/Grail) — Memory is Gossip (Rose/Grail)

Morphy Codex — SH lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Tridesma Hiera (Moon/Grail) — Memory is Beguiling Melody (Grail/Sky)

Viennese Conundra — Moth lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Wolf Stories (Moon/Scale) — Memory is Fear (Scale/Edge)

Voyages of Ferninshun of Oreol — SH lore -> Moon mystery — Lesson is Sea Stories (Moon/Grail) — Memory is Salt (Knock/Moon/Winter)

Tally up the aspects associated with these texts: Grail: 5, Edge: 3, Rose: 3, Knock: 2, Scale: 2, 1 each Sky, Moth, Winter, Heart.

& secondary aspects for skills with primary Moon aspect: Grail: 2, Scale: 2, Edge: 1, Heart: 1

& primary aspects for skills with secondary Moon aspect: Winter: 5, Rose: 2, Edge: 2, 1 each Grail, Heart, Nectar, Sky, Scale.

& other aspects on Moon-aspected memories: 4 each Rose, Edge, Winter, Knock, 1 each Sky, Moth.

Keep in mind that this is only an approximation, because we're not taking into account any context for when, why, or how these conjunctions may occur. But we can identify certain patterns just by looking at the frequency; the two most common conjunctions are with Edge and Winter (10x), followed by Rose (9x), Grail (7x), Knock (6x), Scale (5x), Heart and Sky (3x), Moth (2x), and Nectar (1x).

Rose and Knock are both unusual in how they interact with other principles, with Rose being all-encompassing and Knock all-opening. So we're somewhat less interested in them for now. If we consider only the frequency of Moon's associations with the seven 'regular' principles present in Cultist Simulator, where might we position Moon in relation to the subversion wheel diagrammed above?

Well, the most intuitive way to decide its placement is to first put it in between Edge and Winter, then move it a bit clockwise to reflect its significant overlap with Grail and minor associations with Heart and Moth. Right?

In the interest of brevity I won't go through the tallies for the other three 'regular' aspects introduced in Book of Hours, but after going through this same process (and making some aesthetic adjustments, because this is only an approximate representation)...

What we have here is the Cultist Simulator order-of-subversion wheel with the four new aspects plotted onto it as the corners of a containing square; Sky in the juncture between Moth and Lantern, Scale between Lantern and Edge, Moon between Edge and Heart, and Nectar between Heart and Moth. I propose that:

These four principles subvert each other clockwise around the outer wheel, Sky into Scale into Moon into Nectar into Sky, and

The principles in Cultist Simulator, including Knock and Rose, all emerged through division of these older four during the striving and conflicts of the Lithomachy.

Any serious discussion of the Lithomachy is well out of the scope of this post (BUT WE'LL GET TO IT SOONER OR LATER BECAUSE HOO BOY) so my argumentation on this second point will necessarily be rather thin. Sorry. The remainder of this post will concern how well the above diagram holds up to more substantive investigation, and to that end here are the definitions of each principle aspect as per Book of Hours, in order of subversion:

Rose. 'The rose which encompasseth all'. Nine directions to new horizons.[Exploration? Enlightenment? Hope?]

Sky. Wind, storm, echo, song; the intricacies of mathematics and the principles of flight. Law's touch is lighter than we sometimes think.[Matters of balance, harmony and necessity.]

Scale. Hard without, hard within, hard to rouse, harder to subdue. [What is left of the crude powers of the deep earth.]

Moon. Secrets are soft; night is softer still; the sea speaks. It is not always wise to listen. [The nocturnal, the forgotten.]

Nectar. The green wealth in the world's veins; the pulse of the seasons. [Long ago, some called this principle Blood.]

Lantern. 'Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible Sun within us.' - Thomas Browne [Lantern is the principle of the secret place sometimes called the House of the Sun, and of the light above it.]

Forge. 'Fire', I once read, 'is the winter that warms and the spring that consumes.' [The principle of the Forge transforms and destroys.]

Edge. All conquest occurs at the Edge. One who dwells there is blind, and cannot be wounded. Another is strong, and grows stronger. [Edge is the principle of battle and of struggle.]

Winter. ... [Winter is the principle of silence, of endings, and of those things that are not quite dead.]

Heart. The Heart Relentless beats to protect the skin of the world we understand. [The Heart is the principle that continues and preserves.]

Grail. Hunger, lust, the drowning waters. [The principle of the Grail honours both the birth and the feast.]

Moth. I knew a man who captured moths in a bell-jar. On nights like this, he would release them one by one to die in the candle. [Moth is the wild and perilous principle of chaos and yearning.]

& Knock. The Knock permits no seal and no isolation. It thrusts us gleefully out of the safety of ignorance. [The Knock is the principle that opens doors and unseams barriers.]

And while, as I said, we are not going to delve deeply into the subject of the Lithomachy in this post, I do want to make a brief note of the gods-from-stone and their probable aspects. The Horned-Axe, we know to be both Knock- [Liminal Evocation] and Winter-aspected [Winter veneration]. Her attestation in 'On the Winding Stair' is also quite interesting:

Gregory evidently succeeds in opening a way to something he calls the 'Moon-Hall', but here his account becomes erratic. He insists that in the Moon-Hall the Horned-Axe is still an Edge-power; he hopes for an 'eternal rival', but cannot find the one he needs. The narrative is increasingly interspersed with chess notations, and ends abruptly.

Here we have an implication that the Horned-Axe was and is no longer an Edge-power, but within the House of the Moon she still is Edge-aspected (or possibly a cross-gender mirror-twin of hers retains an Edge-aspect that she has lost or discarded). The similarity here to the recurring idea that the Wheel still turns in the House of the Moon is striking. Her altar beneath Hush House accepts Edge, Scale, Winter, and Knock aspect.

The Horned-Axe is one of the three Hours of the Chancel alongside the Meniscate and the Sister-and-Witch, of whom the former has obvious associations with the Moon and the latter with the Sea. I submit, then, that before the Lithomachy, the Horned-Axe's aspects were instead Moon and Scale, and that she was—in some way—divided or bifurcated in the course of the Lithomachy into two halves, both with Knock aspect, one Winter-aspected and the other an Edge-aspected reflection.

(<- I will note, as an observation, that there is a vague and rather tangential precedent for such an occurrence; the Wolf-Divided is the product of the division of an Hour, and likewise has Edge and Winter aspect. The common factor would seem to be the coincidence of an ending, hence Winter, with the emergence of an entity driven by an unfulfilled need, hence Edge.)

That is our only living god-from-stone. The others are the Wheel, the Flint, the Tide, the Seven-Coil, and the Egg Unhatching. We know that the Wheel was usurped by the Moth (and that its blood, shed on the roots of the Wood, birthed the Velvet); that the Flint was shattered by the Forge; that the Colonel and the Mother of Ants conspired to slay the Coil; and that the Egg Unhatching fled to the Glory by unknown means and with uncertain outcome.*

[*The Unwise Mortal brought it through the Tricuspid Gate and then it hatched into the Sun-in-Splendour. This is how he ascended to Hourhood as the Watchman. I can't get into it right now or we'll be here all day but: TRUST.]

So, the Wheel was replaced by the Moth and the Velvet (aspects: Moth, Heart—& I submit, also Moon). When the Medium paints the endless memory: "With each turn its cilia pulse and wriggle and its body flushes translucent to crimson. It might be ugly but it is beautiful like the withdrawing of blood from the labyrinths of glass. It does not cease and all its involutions are infinite." All of this locates us firmly in the neighborhood of Moth/Heart, emphasis on Heart given the imagery, and given that the aspect now called Nectar was once known as Blood, this one is easy.

The Wheel's first aspect was Blood. I believe it may also have been Scale-aspected, due to its association with serpents. (On this see Serpents & Venoms. Note that the Secret Histories wiki identifies the 'low red sun' as the Egg Unhatching mostly on the basis of the Medium's glorious memory, but this plainly incorrect. The 'low red sun' was the Wheel, and the Egg Unhatching was a moon, before it hatched. We'll talk about this in more detail in my next post.)

The Flint was 'eclipsed and then shattered' by the Forge. In nearly all of its attestations it's associated with the earth in some way. When painting the golden memory, the Flint is described thus: "This is only a stone, though it is smoothed and sharpened to a midnight point, but look closer. Each of its facets shows a single point of light. It might be the glint of firelight. It might be each a different Star."

As with the Wheel being a Blood-Hour, it seems quite straightforward that the Flint's aspect was Scale; and given its connection to the Wheel through the line of Antaios, an argument could be made that it had a minor Blood aspect as well, making the Wheel and the Flint reflections of each other (Blood/Scale | Scale/Blood).

Next, the Tide, which the Red Grail drowned and consumed. Its usurpation by the Grail and association with the Sea would suggest Blood (the primordial precursor to Grail) and, obviously, Moon. Painting the luxurious memory offers the description: "In a night-blue Mansus-haze swims a coral palace-crown. At its fore-edge it absorbs the lesser Names, coating them with its minerals and juices, and at its rear edge it expels some of them, polished like jewels. The others go to feed its thorny Tide-heart," which reinforces the 'Grail-precursor' angle pretty strongly.

Further, the Tide being Moon- and Blood-aspected offers an elegant explanation for the unusual frequency of Moon-Grail conjunctions in comparison to the other 'precursor' aspects (Heart-Sky is also a common conjunction but otherwise conjunctions with aspects outside the precursor 'quadrant' are quite rare); consider the Sea as the world's blood, an ever-churning life-giving liquid, and the Moon must figure as the world's heart, as the engine of the tidal forces which keep the waters circulating. Heart is the connection between the two, but Grail having supplanted Blood (now Nectar) as the principle most strongly associated with the Sea, it remains closely entangled with the Moon.

Like the Flint, it seems fairly straightforward that the Seven-Coil was Scale-aspected: its monstrous serpentine form and present associations with earthquakes both unambiguously point in this direction. Contra the Secret Histories wiki, I actually do not believe that the Seven-Coil had Rose aspect itself. The events leading up to its slaying are (notably) recounted in much greater detail than the death of any other god-from-stone, and unlike the others, its defeat came not at the hands of a god-from-blood but what seem to have been the first two human* gods-from-flesh; it follows that the death of the Seven-Coil occurred much later than the usurpation of the Wheel, the Flint, and the Tide...

[*I believe the Elegiast and the Beachcomber may be much older, but neither of them were mortal humans as the Colonel and the Mother of Ants seem to have been prior to their ascensions. Jury is out on when the Vagabond ascended to Hourhood exactly, but she's of the Cross. Probably.]

...and indeed, 'The Deeds of the Scarred Captain' places the slaying of the Seven-Coil immediately prior to the founding of Mycenae, which occurred around 1350-1200 BC—well into the Bronze Age and not remotely prehistorical.

The Coil itself wasn't Rose-aspected; I believe its slaying is the inciting incident for one of the Histories—most likely the Third. The massive proliferation of Worms in that History, the loose association between Worms and the Coil, the origin of the Seven-Coils' Temple in the Third History, Sparrow's paranoid conviction that this History is "overrun by Coils," and even the aspects of the Third History's encaustum Nillycant (Winter & Edge for the Colonel; Scale for the Coil) all seem to point in this direction.

That leaves only the Egg Unhatching, vexing little enigma that it is. In the Medium's painting it appears like this: "A faded pale white-gold seen in certain patches of the sky, when the mist is clearing but the sun might be mistaken for the moon. We hold our breath and watch it brighten, until each colour divides from the next like a new-minted alphabet." Despite its having been a moon, I'm not wholly convinced that it had Moon aspect; that it hatched into the Sun-in-Splendour (you'll have to trust me on this for now) might suggest it was Sky-aspected, although this doesn't feel quite right to me either.

The other Lantern-precursor it could have had is Scale, and I am fairly confident that the Egg Unhatching was Scale-aspected. The Seven-Coil is described as 'the nest' in a certain ending and there are some hints toward a connection between the Sun-in-Splendour and the Scīmafectra-kind of the Carapace Cross; it would not be unreasonable for the Egg Unhatching to have been laid or incubated in the Nest—that is, the Seven-Coil—during the era of the Carapace Cross, and thus to have Scale aspect. The Scale determination may loosely support this as well. Furthermore, the Unwise Mortal "learnt the shaping arts of the Flint" and later "ascended to the shadow of the Egg Unhatching," which is suggestive of some degree of similarity between the Flint and the Egg. So we'll put this one down as Scale and a 'maybe' on Moon/Sky.

...and that's my 'brief' note on the probable aspects of the gods-from-stone. TO RECAP:

Horned-Axe: Moon/Scale -> Knock/Winter + Knock/Edge

Wheel: Blood/Scale

Flint: Scale/Blood

Tide: Blood/Moon

Seven-Coil: Scale

Egg Unhatching: Scale + Moon/Sky (?)

Lastly—and this is more a footnote for a future post, really—notice the absence here of any gods-from-stone with clear, unambiguous signs of having been Sky-aspected. An argument can be made for the Wheel and the Flint to have had Sky aspect, the Wheel having been the old sun and the Flint being associated with starlight, but there is little in the way of supporting evidence (and neither Sky-Nectar nor Sky-Scale are common conjunctions, although Heart and Sky are frequently conjunct in matters of weather, so the argument for the Wheel to have been Blood / Scale / Sky is a bit stronger than the one for the Flint).

Right. So.

Let's talk about the nine elements of the soul.

Here, I've marked how different aspects are connected through, or by, each part of the soul. Where two aspects are not adjacent, the connection is represented passing through the simplest juncture, such that the aspects of Ereb, Wist, and Trist connect to each other through Knock; the Moth and Rose of Fet pass through Sky; and Moon is the joint between Health's Nectar/Heart and Scale.

Depicting the elements this way reveals some interesting patterns:

Other than Health, which is unusual in other ways, every non-adjacent pair here is joined through its juncture at a 135° angle (and if we were to route the connection from Heart to Scale through Knock rather than Moon, this would be true of Health too; however, I believe that Moon is the more appropriate juncture in this case for reasons I will outline in a bit.)

The two paired aspects that are adjacent around the inner wheel, Forge/Edge Mettle and Heart/Grail Chor, are stronger in the principle subverted when these aspects interact. In theory, this suggests that Sky may subvert Lantern—and this in turn would be a small point in favor of interpreting Sky / Scale / Moon / Nectar as precursor aspects whose division created the modern principles, on the grounds that Sky subverting Lantern then obeys the Sanguine Exception.

(which holds that every door must open both ways.)

Chor, "exuberance, rhythm, and instinct," has Heart aspect with a lesser power of Grail; when subverting Heart lore or influence into Grail, the project description is "what does not cease will succumb, at last, to temptation," and the action "all that moves must succumb to hunger." This conjunction is also reversed in Memory: Satisfaction, which has Grail aspect with a lesser power of Heart, so it doesn't seem like a stretch to conclude that Chor arises from hunger in moderation; that is, the need for sustenance and meaning in life, absent the wilder hedonism of Grail.

Chor's malady, Duendracy, is a lapse in concentration brought on by what is described as a quite pleasant but very distracting (or perhaps inspiring) "possessing presence from the Mansus." It has Heart aspect only; but notice how afflicted Chor seems to be stilled as the Grail aspect is lost to the pleasant distraction—even though Heart is defined as the principle of relentless motion! Similarly, that Duentratic Chor must be roused by a sufficient power of Moth, the "wild and perilous principle of yearning," suggests the best cure for Duendracy is a nameless dissatisfaction which reawakens the Heart to its hunger, and thus restores its balance with Grail.

Ereb is "pride, compassion, hatred, fear" and "the shadow in the soul's cellar." It has Grail aspect with a lesser amount of Edge; so, we might call it an expression of passionate desire bringing about, or brought about by, strife. And while Ereb itself lacks Knock aspect, the way its Grail-Edge conjunction is expressed does resonate with the principle of Knock for much the same reason that one facet of Knock is wounding.

What commonality unites the qualities of pride, compassion, hatred, fear?—here I will note that Book of Hours (and Cultist Simulator, in less unsubtle ways) incorporates a number of Jungian concepts into its storytelling; the Archaeologist in particular is more or less explicitly tormented by their projected Shadow, in Jungian terms. The Shadow is an unconscious aspect of the personality composed of traits that are unwanted, that do not align with the aspirational ideal image of oneself, and which are therefore both repressed and projected outward, driving conflict both within and without. Confrontation with the Shadow is inevitable and may lead to either possession by it (which produces confusion, distress, emotional paralysis) or assimilation of it (which acknowledges and integrates the Shadow into the conscious self, a spiritual awakening).

The word Ereb derives from ἔρεβος (érebos), the ancient Greek for the darkness of Hades; and it's "the shadow in the soul's cellar," the intersection of Grail's "drowning waters" with the conflict and conquests of Edge—it is the Shadow, and so it is hidden or buried but must, sooner or later, be encountered. And so we might say that the Shadow will eventually, inevitably, perhaps violently, Knock. Note, also, the descriptions when strengthening Ereb with either Bosk ("the Wood is filled with shadows") or Skolekosophy ("...will unchain my Ereb"), and more generally Ereb's association with the unwritten, instinctual lore of the primaeval wood and the study of things that should not be studied. The Shadow comes Knocking, etc.

(I find Ereb especially interesting in relation to both Calyptra and the Corrivality, and will get into a deeper dive about this at some point in the future. For now: Westengryre is the affliction incurred by provoking the Mare-in-the-Tree. Sleep softly!).

Fet is "that part of us which walks in dreams," and its first aspect is Rose, its second Moth; and, as noted, I propose that the juncture in this conjunction is Sky. Why?

Sky concerns "matters of balance, harmony, and necessity." Moth is an unpredictable, wandering principle of chaotic yearning; Rose is "exploration, enlightenment, hope." Now think about Fascination: 2 Moth, THE HIGHER I RISE THE MORE I SEE; and if the Cultist succumbs to visions with three Fascination, this is their ending: "First it was the dreams. Then it was the visions. Now it's everything. I no longer have any idea what is real, and what is not."

Fet, the part which walks in dreams, which traverses the Mansus, has Moth aspect commingled with the aspect of enlightenment and exploration. Its malady is Gisting, the Rose aspect absent the Moth, and described thus: "As my concentration fails, a part of my soul flutters away, drawn by a distant half-imaginary light. [...] My fet is gisting - too loosely tethered to me - so that I glimpse the Mansus even in daylight hours. [...] In dreams I have visited the House behind the world... and some part of me is trapped there now, even when I wake." Whence does the Cultist's Moth-aspected Fascination derive? From the unmooring of Moth from their Fet.

To maintain one's Fet in good health—to walk the Mansus in dreams with the dangerous impulse to wander tethered safely to the skin of the world and the ways beneath it—what is required most of all is balance; harmony between the peril of Moth and the Rose which anchors the dreamer to the Wake. This is a matter of Sky.

(& of course, Rose and Moth together represent the nine divisions of the wind itself: the eight winds of the compass rose and the directionless, chaotic ninth.)

Health—Health is unusual in several ways, the most obvious being that it has three aspects rather than two. It is not a part of the soul per se but rather the dwelling-place thereof; its aspects are Nectar, Heart, and Scale. I believe that the reason for this is relatively simple. The aspect now called Nectar was once instead named Blood, and so we might consider that the first aspect of Health, the body, is the Heart-Blood, or the Blood-in-the-Heart. Or we might conceptualize this combination of Nectar-Heart as within-without, the lifeblood moved by the heart beating to protect the skin.

Then why Scale?

Well... Scale is the aspect of what is left, of what remains, of the old forgotten songs asleep in the depths of the earth which might yet be roused; and the Cross died not but passed within. Health has Scale-aspect because that is the last trace of the Carapace Cross, long-buried and forgotten but never quite gone. Hence my choice to route Nectar-Heart's union to Scale through Moon, the secret and forgotten things, rather than through Knock and Forge. Either is cogent, but I think Moon is the better fit.

Next! Mettle. Mettle is easy. Mettle is the "will; self-discipline; that part of us which makes the right choice" and "the capacity for meaningful choice," and it has Forge aspect with a lesser power of Edge. When subverting Forge lore or influence into Edge, the Cultist invokes the Lionsmith's rebellion at Issus: "The Hour called Lionsmith shattered his own sword to escape his master's dominion. All things can be overcome, with sufficient force. [...] I've shattered what I believed before. Thus have I subverted my Forge lore to Edge."

A small—but important!—detail I want to underscore here. In shattering his sword at Issus, the Lionsmith enacted a teaching of the Forge of days, that "the artisan may achieve their highest goal only by destroying their most precious tool." That is to say, the method used here to subvert Forge into Edge is not to conquer the Forge with the Edge but instead to reforge the Edge using Forge-techniques. One principle subverting another doesn't necessarily imply an adversarial relationship to each other; they are instead complements, or united opposites, or both. Forge-into-Edge is the clearest demonstration of this.

Thus, Mettle encompasses not just fortitude and conviction but specifically the will to change oneself—to break and be reforged—in pursuit of the highest goal. I would also submit that it is the part of the soul most in conflict with Ereb (the ego-ideal of the superego, if you want it in Jungian terms; that aspirational sense of self and identity which suppresses the Shadow). The drowning waters of Grail versus the consuming fire of Forge, the birth-and-death, end-and-beginning of Grail vs the metamorphosis and shaping arts of Forge; opposite and the same, passion striving against self-discipline, willpower striving to give form to unconscious desire, and so conflict arises from the Edge between them.

Phost is "the light within: sight, perception, inspiration" and "all the Glory's gifts." Its first aspect is Lantern, its second Sky. When afflicted, its malady is Fascinated: "My inner light gutters, then flares - I am snared in a dangerous fascination. [...] Phost is the brightest part of the soul - sometimes it can grow too bright for safety." Unlike the Cultist's Moth-y Fascination, Fascinated Phost has a small degree of Lantern aspect. It does, however, appear to be the same condition, hence "the HIGHER I RISE the MORE I SEE."

The discrepant aspect here may come down to a simple difference in temperament between the Cultist and the Librarian; one imagines that an adept must have a greater inclination toward Moth than a scholar—otherwise why seek what lies above and beyond the Stag Door? Thus Glory entices the adept but blinds the scholar. Or else, for the scholar, the danger of Fascination lies in what perilous yearnings might be enticed toward you, as Daymare insinuates, although whether the advice she offers Gwen is applicable generally or not is, given Gwen's particular circumstances, unclear.

In any case, Phost is the part of the soul afflicted by Fascination, and it seems reasonable to conceive of it as a counterpart or perhaps the fulcrum of Fet. Consider the Watchman's Paradoxes, a Lantern-Sky skill which can be committed either to Illumination or Nyctodromy:

From Light (Phost) Our dreams are shadows cast by the Watchman's light. So we perceive him even in our shadow. This is Illumination. From Change (Fet) We recognise the dream-places that the Watchman shows us, though we have never seen them before. Perhaps we were something else when we saw them. This paradox is fundamental to Nyctodromy.

If a dream is the shadow cast by the Watchman's light, or a place thereby illuminated, and Phost is "all the Glory's gifts," and the Fet is the part of the soul which walks in dreams, then it is—perhaps—Phost which illuminates the way, as an inner semblance of the Watchman's light, and keeps the balance between Rose and Moth.

Shapt is "eloquence and understanding; the door opens both ways." It has Knock aspect and a lesser power of Forge. It is words. It is speech: the first wound, the first sword, the first key. When afflicted, it develops the malady Acusis, "in which the door, Shapt, cannot be closed. [...] Every sound rings like a bell - every word scratches at my eyes or skin." Knock, absent Forge, soothed only by the silence of Winter. I get very excitable about Shapt and this is already a quite long post, so I will leave it at: Ebrehel is the Shapt of an Hour.

Trist is "the change and the longing," and its first aspect is Moth, its second Moon. Its affliction, Despairing, has Edge aspect instead: "Trist is already half a hand trailed in a river of deeper sadness. [...] Melancholy is the mist on the soul's waters. Despair is the wolf that prowls the water's edge." Trist is also implicated in the existence of what seems to be the most dangerous of the 'great shadows' that can be found in tombs—as described in 'The Barrowchild's Elegies':

The Barrowchild warns particularly of the 'avidity of trist', where a remnant-shadow's longing for change survives its sense of self and even devours its wist. That longing may draw the curious into the tomb, where the remnant-shadow changes so that it cannot be distinguished from its visitor - or that the reverse becomes true - and that it is never again possible to say whether it is the shadow or the visitor that exits the tomb.

ahem. Conceptually what this 'avidity of trist' describes is, in Jungian terms, possession by the Shadow. In Secret Histories terms, I believe that Ereb (fear) overtakes Trist, which turns to despair; the Mettle (will, choice, the determinants of self) is eroded or forsaken or otherwise lost, whereafter the despairing Trist provokes a complete obliteration of everything else that remains in a violent, agonized desperation to destroy the Ereb. & that's what a Wolf-Splinter is.

So the Moth aspect needs no explanation. Moon, however, is interesting, as is the juncture through Knock and Winter. Trist, the change and the longing, is melancholy... and Moon is the aspect of secrets, of nocturnal and forgotten things. Trist, I believe, is specifically the longing for what has been lost, after the changing, after something ends. Hence the danger of its avidity.

Last and not least, we have Wist; "the soul's memory, the true name scratched on its cornerstone, what remains after the rest has passed." It's the memory and the remnants. Its aspects are Winter and Lantern, and its malady, Shell-Crossed, has the aspect Scale, expressly because it's a surfacing remnant: "Memory crossed, hatched, lined, snapped. My thoughts are tangled and unfamiliar to me. Something of those who came before - the Carapace Cross - has always lingered in humankind. It's risen now in me."

The Winter-aspect is of course straightforward, given the Wist's role as memory-keeper for the soul. The Elegiast comes to mind, as does the nowhere-Hour called Snow (for death alters; Snow endures).

But why Lantern? Lantern is not an aspect frequently associated with preservation or endurance—quite the opposite, it purifies and it blinds. It begins to make sense if we consider this Lantern-aspect in relation to the Scale-aspect that emerges when Wist becomes Shell-Crossed, and that is, I think, the closest we have to a smoking gun in terms of Scale being a precursor to Lantern. What remains of the Carapace Cross now? Only light. This is why Shell-Crossed Wist is cured with Lantern; its Scale aspect is purified and therefore forgotten, all but the very last, inextinguishable trace.

(We'll discuss that more in another post.)

So!

All of these conjunctions of principles within the soul track quite well with the positioning of Sky / Scale / Moon / Nectar at the corners around the 'inner wheel.' I think the elements of the soul provide a more comprehensive look at the way the principles interact with each other than do Cultist Simulator's subversion projects, which we turn to now. Briefly. (she says, lying.)

Lantern into Forge: "The magus Julian Coseley claims the Forge of Days split the Sun. Perhaps he was right. [...] Light yields to Heat."

Something interesting to note is that there is a recurring if rather subtle motif of the Sun's light—the light of the Glory, Lantern—being cold. Or at least, not very warm. Besides the Meniscate, whose light is that of a reflection because her domain is the Moon, all of the extant Solar Hours have Winter aspect, which is not particularly unusual in and of itself given the influence of the Intercalate. But the Medium's splendid memory implies that the Sun-in-Splendour, although brighter than the Madrugad or the Sun-in-Rags, was likewise chilly: "The Sun was brighter once - no warmer, but its light held colours we no longer see."

This contrasts the Wheel, as described in, for example, the Inks of Revelation commitment to Hushery: "...since the dawn times when the sun hung red and low and we felt its warmth like autumn." But even that suggests only a little warmth.

Lantern and Forge are similar in myriad ways—light purifies, light blinds; fire gives light and consumes knowledge; one is unmerciful, the other inspires unmerciful change—but one key enduring difference does seem to be that Lantern-light is cold, unyielding, whereas Forge-light burns, desires, consumes, destroys. In this specific way Forge holds more similarity to Moth and Grail than it does to Lantern... and indeed we do see Forge-Moth or Forge-Grail conjunctions here and there. Notably, Transformations & Liberations (Forge-Moth) and Numen: A Merciless Alteration (Edge-Forge-Grail).

Forge into Edge, we've touched on already.

Edge into Winter: "I am acknowledging the victory of patience over strength. [...] Patience defeats strength."

Just as the method for subverting Forge into Edge recalls the Lionsmith, Edge into Winter may—arguably—call upon the Colonel's understanding of victory through the cunning borne of experience. Or we might interpret the operation from the perspective that even the fiercest conflict must end in time, whether in victory or defeat; that even the strongest warrior must fall. The White waits west of the world, but she will not wait forever. In all likelihood both are true, or at least can be true. I would imagine there are different techniques drawn from either viewpoint. (& this, too, is Edge.)

Winter into Heart: "Winter's coming must yield at last to spring."

This operation, I find most interesting in conjunction with the description of Forge as "the winter that warms and the spring that consumes." On its face, it is reasonable to interpret Winter and Heart as opposite forces—silence and stillness, striving against the drums and motion of life—but... but. Winter is the principle of endings, of silence, and of those things that are not quite dead.

Consider the Winter-Heart skill Quenchings & Quellings:

Arts which quench fires and bring solace to the troubled mind. 'A true adept is never troubled by fire, nor by fever, nor by restless spirit'. – Ambrose Westcott Safety in Silence (Trist) Unwise words are dangerous. Mourn them, remember them, speak them not. This is Hushery. Safety in Oblivion (Health) Let the flesh forget disease, let the smoke forget the flame, let the troubled mind forget its pain: Preservation.

Ambrose Westcott was a metallurgist, an alchemist, a pyrographer—his area of specialization pertained to Forge, not to Heart or Winter. But Quenchings & Quellings is first and foremost a skill interested in regret and forgetting, and therein lies the connection: Regret is a Winter-Forge memory. "Every choice has its shadow."

I do not think Winter and Heart are opposing forces at all, but rather two sides of a three-sided coin. (If you'll pardon the tortured metaphor.) Winter ends and Heart renews. Winter remembers and Heart preserves. What's missing from these pictures? Forge, which destroys; Forge, which transforms. Not for nothing are these the principles of Calyptra; the Black Flower's Heart-aspect, the White's Winter-aspect, the Red's Forge.

Heart into Grail, we've already discussed.

Grail into Moth: "Even the Red Grail falls prey to the buzzing in the brain."

Obviously, little daylight exists between hunger and yearning; both are a form of desire. Moth and Grail are similar in their hedonism, their wildness, their violence; the Moth flayed the Wheel and the Thunderskin was flayed at the Grail's behest. (Much is made of the confounding question of whether the Moth or the Grail came first, feasted first, arose first. There are no end of contradictory answers, but the truth is really very simple. They are twins—triplets actually but we don't have time for that—born together.)

But do note the specific phrasing used here—that the Red Grail falls prey to the Moth. The Hour called Moth is a hunter. This is described, for example, when committing Horns & Ivories to the Bosk. So the Red Grail is an Hour which hungers and consumes, presiding at births and deaths in equal measure, and sometimes she falls prey to the hunter-Moth; there is some notion here of reversals, of the hunter-becoming-hunted, of hunger being what is preyed upon.

Here I will draw your attention to the Moth-Grail skill Resurgences & Emergences: "Birth and death are only directions. Between the two we find a crossroads." When Grail is subverted into Moth, this is the crossroads they approach.

& into Knock: "Place pressure upon a weakness, and rend the skin of the world." Any aspect studied with Knock becomes Knock.

Knock is a power of opening, of wounding, of breaching; but I think it is also—perhaps even more importantly—a principle of intersection. It is the joining-together which dissolves all boundaries. The reason it subverts everything is less that it's a cosmic skeleton key and more a question of Knock being the principle that understands everything to be connected to everything else, because it is the principle which connects all things. Nothing is truly separate, and nothing can be divided unless it was first joined.

It's the aspect of the Mother of Ants, who encircles, who arises from wounds, who spares those who are already harmed. Knock is the principle that both wounds and heals by wounding, the venom that is also the antivenin. If you've ever wondered why Sacrament Ascite is brewed from Glassfinger Toxin, this is why.

Now—finally—let's discuss my proposed operations of Sky into Scale, into Moon, into Nectar, back into Sky.

Sky into Scale: This one is actually quite open-and-shut. We'll start with the Ithastry commitment for the language Kernewek Henevek:

The Stars (Wist) A smiths' proverb in Brancrug: 'What starts in the sky, ends in the earth.' A story goes with it, that the village smith's anvil in the time of the Dewulfs was hatched from a meteor stone, and so every plough in the village knows something of the stars. Not many remember the story, but everyone remembers the proverb. It would probably count as Ithastry.

From the sky to the earth; as above, so below. Sky is "wind, storm, echo, song... matters of balance, harmony, and necessity." Scale is "hard without, hard within, hard to rouse, harder to subdue; what remains of the old powers of the earth." What's an earthquake if not a storm within the stone? Or is it a song that still echoes beneath the earth?

Both are precursors to the modern principle of Lantern; Scale, the principle of the Flint, is very closely associated with Forge—and in Lightning we find the conjunction of Sky-Forge.

There is also a whole tangent we could go into here about the birds and the serpents and the birds-of-a-scale, worms-of-a-feather. But I won't belabor the point. Next!

Scale into Moon: One could make an argument, too, for Scale into Nectar, on the grounds of stone-and-soil, fossil-and-seed, antecedent for the Winter-Heart relationship. However, that becomes more difficult when the relationships between the precursors and the modern principles is taken into account, and I think the similarities between Scale-Nectar and Winter-Heart are more accurately represented in terms of Scale-Moon-Nectar preceding the triad of Forge-Winter-Heart.

The Scale-Moon subversion also has Hill & Hollow going for it, in particular the Preservation commitment:

The ways of the hill-children and the gods-from-stone. Old paths, old secrets, the songs that still echo beneath the earth. How They Endured (Health) In the beginning, the Carapace Cross served the first Hours, the gods born from stone. When the gods-from-stone were defeated, where could the Cross go? Into the hills; into the Bounds; and into us. This is how humankind came to be, and in our most secret hollows, the Cross endures. This is a matter of Preservation.

(Note that 'the Bounds' seems to also encompass the House of the Moon, as per the Nyctodromy commitment for Hyksos.)

Scale is what sleeps, remains, what might be roused, while Moon is what is secret, what is hidden, what is nocturnal, and what has been forgotten. Scale endures and fades from memory; Moon remembers what was forgotten. The old songs that echo under the earth become the secrets whispered by the waves beneath the moon.

Like Forge and Winter, Scale and Moon pair the violent destruction of Scale (as a shattering earthquake) with the softer, gentle endings presided over by Moon (as the sea erodes stone). Next!

Moon to Nectar: Here, of course, the dual nature of Grail—the drowning waters but also blood—is worth noting. Both Nectar and Moon are far more strongly tied to Grail than to Heart. And of course, the Wheel, the low red sun, once had the aspect Blood; and it still turns inside the House of the Moon.

Speaking of the Wheel, while Serpents & Venoms is a Scale-Moon skill, it undeniably concerns the Wheel (which may, as we discussed earlier, have also been Scale-aspected), and its Hushery commitment has some interesting implications regarding the relationship between the Wheel and dreams:

The Last Sun (Trist) In the dawn times the sun was lower, so we gave it our blood. From our blood it knew us, and so it was kinder. Its serpents brought us its poisons to drink, and so we died. But we only died a little, and so we dreamed, and returned the next day to give it our blood again. Those times of peace persist in the lessons of Hushery.

In the Mansus as it exists now, dreams are shadows cast by the Watchman's light, or else illuminated by his light, but of course this could not have been true in the dawn time when the Watchman didn't yet exist. The Moon-Knock memory A Stolen Secret, "Something I overheard in dreams?", together with Moon's associations with secrets and nocturnal things, at least circumstantially supports the conclusion that dawn-dreams were illuminated instead by the Moon.

Thus, this interplay between the blood-drinking Wheel whose serpents opened the way each night into dreams beneath the light of the Moon, speaks to the interaction of Moon with the old principle Blood, and what traces of that remain between Moon and Nectar.

Blood drinks of life and gives death and the Moon heals in dreams; Blood brings the dawn and Night yields to day. Nectar is the principle of germination and of poisoned thorns and of renewal, and the Moon still remembers what it was.

Also, the Velvet. Just... the Velvet. Next!

Nectar to Sky: We return to Kernawek Henavek, but this time it is the Bosk commitment that interests us...

The Roots (Health) A farmers' proverb in Brancrug: 'What starts in the roots, ends in the sky.' A superstition goes with it, that before a child's first birthday you should leave her for a summer night sleeping in the roots of an apple-tree, to make sure she grows tall and straight-backed. Not many pay heed to the superstition now, but everyone remembers the proverb. It would probably count as Bosk.

...along with the Birdsong commitment for Leaves & Thorns:

Looking Up (Chor) The gardener's first lesson is this: look up. What starts as weather ends in the world, what starts as sky ends in the soil. This is what the birds know, and the birds know most things first.

As beneath, so above. What is a tree but a throne to birds, and what is Sky but a crown for birds? What begins in sky ends in soil, and so the first lesson of the gardener is to look up.

Nectar is the pulse of the seasons, the ripening, the wild vigor of new life. Sky is the principle of balance and harmony, mathematics and law—moderation, but also music. The wind in the branches, the bird in the nest, the lightning-strike that fells the tree and lets in the sunlight so that new flowers can grow. I rest my case.

& Fin. (ominously) for now.

I would apologize for the sheer amount of things I've glossed over things to the tune of "but we don't have time for that now" but in my defense, 1. I'M FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE (this post is 8.2k words long) and 2. I have half of a far more comprehensive disquisition regarding the various shadows-under-the-boat we carefully ignored in this post sitting in my drafts; perhaps a quarter of it is complete; it is pushing forty thousand words in length, so 3. It Will Happen Again.

Tune in next time for: VAMPIRE SUN, EGG MOON, & ...THAT GUY.

#cultist simulator #book of hours

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accio-victuuri · 11 months

Text

how many cpns can you get from a 7 second douyin by wyb? 💚💚💚

The Douyin King is back! I know i’m not the only one who missed his random ass douyin posts. They are very much welcome, he is free to share one everyday. I’m cackling at the comparison going around between WYB and other people. So, the rest of the celebrities and influencers are posting on a regular basis per month and have different topics.

photos at work, travel photos, interests/hobbies. this line represents the whole year. there is another diagram that shows how many per line, like 1-2 or more. then you have wang yibo 😂😂😂

line 1 : I'm busy at work and have no time. // line 2: I don’t have time to skateboard, ride a motorcycle or play golf // line 3: Visit my gege’s camping site and the volcano scenery is very good and has a lot of material// line 4: happy and don’t have much time// line 5: Shoot whoever is lucky enough to shoot!

then all the lines after is when he will post — shows that he will share a lot towards the end of the year to keep up with KPI. lol. he is rushing his homework again, to the point that on the video, people are searching what wyb’s kpi mean. which is the engagement metrics he needs to reach and now he gotta work on it, even the fans know and expect it.

the memes are also hilarious! 😂😂😂 ( cat memes below ) basically him working on making his “cool” posts to the internet.

Honestly, never change yibo. We love you as you are, Our Gremlin Best Actor. 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

That was a long intro, now let’s move on to the sweets & CPN…..

• @rainbowsky already talked about the messenger bird CPN & how it might be for ZZ’s Hennessy endorsement.

• similarity in how sometimes, they just wanna post an emoji for caption. this one is a cute parallel from 2021 and 2023. If you wanna further clown with WYB using kadian 13 for yizhan then go ahead too 😌

• it is being compared to him referencing his shoes before, picking up his shoes ( xie zi ) (xz) ; and now it’s another homophonic clue ( jm ) ⬇️⬇️⬇️

yes we know that you get to meet more often now cause you are both in Beijing! It’s so cool how their language can be used for so many things and you can play with it to send different meanings. international fans could never 💀💀💀💀

• talking about picking up and meeting, cpfs remembered ZZ’s 11/17/21 douyin post. It’s the one with him and a light saber and a sexy transformation. Going by his clothes, I’m thinking it was what he wore during the DC tencent conference and at the time of posting it was already considered as leftover. but I could be wrong, cause he might have worn other leather jackets that year for ads.

anyway, the point is — please compare the background of the rooms. the walls. you know. add the floor too. 👀

look, this isn’t the most unique type of interior. i would say it’s pretty basic like how we clown about hotel curtains. i’m guessing yibo’s is an evisu shoot sometime ago ( cause his hair is not that fluffy anymore idk if his stylist did something to make it like that even with his recent cut ). this place may be a studio of sorts that can be rented out and they just happen to have filmed there.

or… or…..

this could be XZS office. or one of their rented office. Why? this CPN is similar to the one in 2020. How we speculated that the birthday shoot was done in XZS office so ZZ could supervise the direction of the shoot too.

we also love to talk about how xzs and ybo office are right next to each other ( it’s a fact xzs is close to yuehua building actually ) so maybe that can be an explanation too 😂😂😂 it’s not uncommon for an office to have a separate space to do regular photoshoots so maybe theirs have that. or this could have been done after and wyb dropped off their office and took this.

hahahahahaha! so many explanations all because of a wall. that’s the kind of life we turtles have 🙃

Personally, i’m hoping for a 24 hour relay between them. 🙏🏼

-END.

#yizhan #bjyx #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do

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chubs-deuce · 6 months

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Hi!! Love your artwork and your Charlastor AU with Dawn!!

I was wondering if you think Alastor would make any dawn-themed dad jokes and puns in your AU, and if he does, what would Dawn and Charlie think of them? I can’t really think of any off the top of my head right now, but I know ‘a brand new dawn’ is a phrase he could maybe use!

Again, love your art!!! If you don’t mind answering questions about it, do you have any advice for artists who want to improve their drawing or any practices that have helped you develop your skills? And are there any particular artists that really inspire you?

You’re one of my favorite artists and I don’t know how to explain it but your drawings have so much life in them!! 🌟

sdlksdflkj thank you so much omg!!!

I'm so glad you're enjoying them ;W;

And he would be insufferable with them lmfaoo, especially because I'm sure Charlie would hop in on a few of them and add to the pile as well xD

One more I can think of rn is "Oh, I was wondering where the sun went!" whenever Dawn enters a room, because the implied punchline is "but then it Dawned on me" or something? XD idk I'm not good with puns sadly

Now regarding the art advice!! This one got HELLA long so I'll hide it under a cut for everyone's comfort lmao

I know it sounds shallow and like worthless advice, but a huge huuuuge part of getting better at art is to just... make art! Practice makes perfect - it develops your motor skills, gives you somewhat of a muscle memory for certain basic shapes that are a necessity to have a good feel of for good foundation sketching.

Practice also develops your eye for compositing and for how color theory actually applies in practice, it basically helps you develop a more consistent grasp on art as a whole :D

There are some things I've learned over time that definitely helped speed things up though xD

here's some rough sketches I did just to demonstrate what my rougher drawings can look like - also a little diagram (on the right side of the image) of things I keep in mind for the average proportions of a human body!

I tend to sketch very loosely and try to capture the overall vibe and silhouette/rough shapes first before I even think about adding details - there's a certain flow, squish and stretch to everything that's just much easier for me to get a good feel for when I use quick, loose brush strokes and as few lines as possible to convey a concept.

Repeatedly sketching humanoid characters of various shapes, builds and sizes for years genuinely helped enormously in getting not only faster but also more consistent with it!

I'm fairly well practiced with hands and expressions especially at this point since I like to focus on those in my art often, so those come fairly easily to me as well now!

Something I learned along the way about keeping a certain liveliness to my artworks is that sometimes you have to forego anatomical correctness a bit if you want to fully express specific emotions - if you try too hard to keep everything perfectly proportional and realistic, it can make the outcome look stiffer than you might've aimed for - this is something I actually struggle with in my cleaner artworks :'D The ones I do proper lineart for, since a lot of the flow of the original sketch gets lost in the process haha

As for artists/artstyles that inspire me...

There's @/southpauz for example!

Her artstyle is unbelievably expressive and her eye for compositing and her use of shapes is SUBLIME - it inspired me to let loose more with my expressions, exaggerate features a bit more and to push the way I try to vary facial features :D

Then, back when I had that massive Rise of the TMNT phase, the artstyle of it has actually greatly influenced how I draw today!

It manages to be detailed and highly recognizable despite its deceivingly simple style - it exaggerates shapes and uses it to communicate personalities, emotions and action super effectively and taught me a lot about utilizing those more efficiently myself :D

And last but not least Ishida Sui - the mangaka behind Tokyo Ghoul (which used to be a highschool obsession of mine)

His striking use of colors, textures in abstract, yet symbolically heavy ways and his courage to be rough and expressive rather than looking polished, yet also having such a solid understanding of realism blew me the fuck away as a teen and still does now!!!

His art may have less of an influence on my style today than it used to back then, but I think in my more exagerrated, more horror-esque drawings you can kind of see it still :'D Either way I greatly admire him as both a writer and artist.

-----

I'm genuinely so so flattered that you enjoy what I do enough to give me such high praise, thank you so much for writing me such a wonderful ask <3 I'm glad I got to gush about some of my favorite artists/artstyles for a bit haha

If you have any more specific (digital) art related questions don't hesitate to reach out!! I love giving pointers about a subject I'm so passionate about, we don't gatekeep helpful information in this house!!! <3<3<3

#chubs answers #charlastor fankid #chubs ocs #dawn morningstar #art inspiration #art tips

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santoschristos · 8 months

Text

Diagram from Agrippa’s De occulta philosophia (1533) demonstrating the proportion, measure, and harmony of human bodies. The diagram occurs during a discussion of how Noah framed his ark according to the measure of human bodies

The magus could trace lines of influence upward along the great celestial power grid of the universe and downward into every order of being on earth:

All the stars have their own natures, properties, and conditions, and through their rays, they also produce signs and characters in inferior beings as well, in the elements, in stones, in plants, in animals and their members. Therefore each thing receives from its harmonic disposition and its star that irradiates it a certain special sign or character, which is stamped on it, which refers distinctively to that star or harmony, and has a power differing from all the rest either in genus, or species, or number of the preexisting material. Thus each thing has its mark, for some special effect, stamped on it by its star.

Marked by Stars Agrippa’s Occult Philosophy By Anthony Grafton

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tunastime · 8 days

Text

CLASSIFIED

HASA Interspace Investigation Coalition Investigator Reassessment Team

For: the Mission Critical Event Occurring on Stardate 2104.119

Stardate: 2104.123, Location: HCS Influence

Responses recorded using the Automated Question and Answer System (AQNA) aboard the HCS Influence.

Recorded responses enclosed.

Begin transcribed data.

Interview for: IIC Employee #7717

Stated Name: Hels

SESSION BEGIN

AQNA [Generated Text Question]: Please explain the events of [stardate 2104.119]. Subject (Hels) [Recorded Verbal Response]: Well that’s an easy question. We got ambushed, that's what f—ing happened. It was supposed to be a standard datum extraction from a site that was supposed to be abandoned, because nobody decided it would be a good idea to check again. So we got ambushed mid-mission. That's what happened. AQNA: Can you elaborate on the event that triggered the call-back sequence? Hels: What, you want me to draw you a diagram? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Hels: So no diagram? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Hels: The drop-squad successfully made ground contact after about half an hour of survey on our end. We assumed based off of initial information and our scans, that the site was uninhabited. I mean—it’s a decommissioned testing facility for something way more boring than what we’re usually sent for. Why the f— would there be… things living there. Things. They weren’t human. They weren’t me either. We triggered the call-back sequence because I watched everything go white so fast I thought I was seeing the inside of my skull. Ex is the only reason I got out alive. I’m sure he’s… thrilled. AQNA: Were you unable to retrieve the body and equipment of [#7716]? Hels: I didn’t see him. On account of the pulse grenade. Did you watch the footage, or should I be playing narrator? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Hels: I don’t know where he is. I don’t know what they did to him. We lost all his vitals when the pulse fried our equipment at the site. Interviewer: Can you elaborate on the status of [#7716]? Hels: What do you mean elaborate? What—he’s probably dead. Is that what you want to hear? He’s f—ing dead. He’s dead, you piece of shit machine. Go ask somebody else what they think. [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Interviewer: Can you speak to [#6763]’s competence as potential squadron leader? [No verbal recorded response available]

SESSION END

Interview for: IIC Employee #6763

Stated Name: Exania

SESSION BEGIN

AQNA [Generated Text Question]: Please explain the events of [stardate 2104.119]. Subject (Exania) [Recorded Verbal Response]: We failed to complete our extraction procedure. I was able to reach the data site within an hour of touchdown, alongside the rest of the team. We successfully retrieved the abandoned facility data within our allotted time frame, but on the way back to extraction, we were ambushed and caught in the line of fire of the inhabitants that had taken over the facility. I was able to successfully extract the bridge crew and one other member of the drop-squad. AQNA: Can you elaborate on the events that triggered the call-back sequence? Exania: We were attacked? Someone started shooting. Someone threw a magnetizer and a pulse grenade. The two other drop-squad members took a majority of the flash, but it was bright. Everywhere was... painfully bright. I don't have much more to say on that. I just acted in the best interest of the team as second in command. AQNA: Were you unable to retrieve the body and equipment of [#7716]? Exania: He’s dead. What did you want us to do? Retrieve a handful of charred up equipment? I don’t think so. AQNA: Can you elaborate on the status of [#7716]? Exania: He’s dead. That’s it. AQNA: Can you speak to [#7717]’s competence as potential squadron leader? Exania: #7717? I can't. AQNA: Can you elaborate? Exania: I can't. AQNA: Can't? Or won't? Exania: Does it matter? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] AQNA: Please elaborate on your specific involvement with the events of [stardate 2104.119]. Exania: I successfully extracted information from the facility on [REDACTED]. I successfully extracted my drop member #7717, Hels. We were unsuccessful at a full extraction of the entire crew. Look, did I not just say all of this? What's not clicking for you? I know you're just recording this answer looking for keywords. I'm not daft. I think we’re done. AQNA: You're excused. Exania: Thank you.

SESSION END

Interview for: IIC Employee #7716

Given Name: Wels

SESSION BEGIN

AQNA [Generated Text Question]: Please explain the events of [stardate 2104.119]. [No verbal recorded response available] [No AQNA Text Question Generated]

END SESSION

#sen au #hermitcraft fic #hermitcraft au #helsknight #evil xisuma #evil x #welsknight #hermitcraft #fics #mcyt fic #hermitcraft au fic #text #mcyt #QUICK POST SEN WHILE EVERYONE'S ASLEEP #HELLO EVERYONE. SMILES SO WIDE #so i may have been thinking about hels and wels and evil x a lot #over the past few weeks #and needed to do something about it #this is the first installment of some pieces i'd like to do called exit interviews #to give you guys short snippets into plot that i can't really/don't have time to write right now #but i think are still fun to share to keep sen alive #really happy with this one!#poor wels..#he's not dead! i think...#who knows! not hels #anyway sorry um #enjoy!!!#dont worry. AQNA is NOT a robot/android. it is a text generator program.#just in case KJHDFKJHDFG #shoutout to tetris and myke and shep for helping me find x's name LOL

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kodas · 2 months

Note

I would love to hear more about your headlights/brain-critters

aaaaaa thank u for taking interest!! some have a couple nicknames. from left to right: pup/ruff (it), fawn/flux (it), daze (it), red/"pants" (it), mothdog/(???) (they/it), flow crow (they/it)

my headlights often co-front, so distinctions between the lights are only easy to draw a line for if I'm heavily dysregulated or burnt out. usually I have more than one light on. lights depicted next to each other frequently front together (ie, pup+fawn or snail+red or fawn+daze, etc.)

if I'm doing very well and feeling present (& not experiencing any derealization), most of my lights will be on at the same time. they all make up who I am as "koda" and all identify with being koda, but they each have different circumstances to be "on call" for and different needs/goals on their own. not being lit means that light might have to play 'catch up' to remember details of events they weren't present for. I have memory problems lol

if the appropriate light isn't turning on when it needs to, another light will fill in but they won't have the ability to do the 'job' quite the same, leading to faster burnout. this applies to everything: tasks, games, project production, communication, forms of intimacy, etc. drawing with and without flowcrow produces a different quality of output, for example. this is why I call it flowcrow lol. back when I streamed art as puddle it'd usually be a combination of flow+moth. when I was doing xko gameplay streams, it was often pup+fawn with moth or flow chaperoning.

when other lights are out and only fawn is active, I'm in some state of awe. often this means the freeze or fawn response, even in good situations or around trusted people. I like drawing it full of stars when depicted with wonder or feeling intense adoration. it 'lights up' by turning the lights out and gettin' all starry.

moth is on-call and does most of our masking in public situations or anything outside, and is almost always in a state of hypervigilance. they're most active in social situations/group environments and body maintenance and tires out often. mothdog is the only headlight that eats, the others are repulsed by eating or show disinterest. I've been drawing them more like a black wolf-like dog/chowchow with mothman features because they're pretty stand-offish, so cryptid iconography hits right. there's been a long-standing desire to give it a name outside of 'mothdog' but all suggestions so far are met with a "no not that ❌" so we're not rushin it.

flowcrow is an on-call chaperone to other lights for certain activities, but isn't always available and sometimes fucks off (lol). it often switches on for life admin/planning tasks or stuff like learning languages/math, more exhausting comprehensive stuff.

flowcrow and daze solo-front more than any other light but are admittedly pretty antisocial/introverted. flowcrow can feel a complete disconnect from the body and daze is the opposite, unable to shut-off feeling chronic pain unless in trance. (my partners catch me staring off for a long while usually stuck in a memory or trauma flashback. when they 'wake' me, daze is usually no longer solo fronting). daze straight up does not like to be perceived outside of the body, but sometimes has to when all other lights are out.

pup and red are highly reactive and unmasked, they light up all the time with other lights active, but only feel safe enough to solo-front for long around partners/incredibly close friends.

I draw red as a nightcrawler because it's influenced by my delayed flee response, but I also like using ghost imagery for it too. if anthropomorphized further I make it a bit more doggy-like. there are times when red disappears completely for days (sometimes weeks) and I tend to depict it resting within daze because they are connected

anyhow, I've been working out the details on these critters since... late 2019? early 2020? I drew my first diagram for them in 2020

in 2023 I made some comics with my lights drawn as critters. I started working on my dissociation/dysregulation/cptsd in therapy back in 2016/2017. I have a bit more info about them on my website's about page, but the detail I go into is limited over there. way before that I made 'headspace' (a couple of animated shorts about puddle having more puddles in their head) knowing I had a dissociative disorder & cptsd but not feeling comfortable to really get into the details of each light and the purpose they serve. for that cartoon I narrowed it down to 4 lights. to this day I still group them when I talk about them, like on this blog with my tags. #daze is for both daze+red, #ddog is for fawn+pup.

thank you for asking, anon. I've been wanting to actually type all of this out for posting but often got spooked and backspaced a lot before getting your ask. we really appreciate the nudge🌌

obligatory disclaimer:

I'm not interested in syscourse. I recognize every system forms the way it does for reasons to suit the life the body experiences. if you experience plurality, you might not experience the 'divide' and co-fronting in the same way I do. that being said, I know my lights are sourced from my cptsd and strong cognitive dissonance I held for a lot of my early upbringing and a means of which to cope with the circumstances I was trapped in. it formed when I was very young, with fragmentation occuring throughout adolescence. where I can specifically draw lines and similarities between my lights and certain abstractions/iconographies are specfic to my experience with dissociation & multiplicity and does not apply to all or any other systems.

#headlights #ddog #daze #mothdog #crow #kopost

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fence-time · 8 months

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I heard netherborn worldbuilding and lore? 👀👀👀

For basics ig: there’s a lot of diff nether hybrid species (blaze bornes , ghastlings, etc) but netherbornes are basically humans that millions of years ago fled to the nether for whatever reason and over time have adapted to the environment in different ways . Such as ones that grew up in the crimson forests have red / blonde hair and fur and thicker skin, warped jungle ones ((this skizz)) has blue / teal / or rarely orange fur and have longer tails to help balance while in trees, and silly stuff like that, they are solely influenced by biome they have genetic traits which are passed on through their parents and were gained through the long line of evolution (ex. The longer tails) however there are secondary traits that can be influenced (namely fur colour that can be changed by hanging out in a biome for long enough) so you might get a basalt delta netherborne with thicker skin and hooves but with blue fur (instead of their normal ashy grey / black :D). But some may have genetic mutations or just different builds as although they normally fall into one of the handful of biomes groups you may get some between other netherbornes havin kids with other nether hybrids which may result in some more mob like netherbornes :3!!

(This is all just copy and pasted from messages but one day I am gonna make a netherborne world building chart w/ doodles and diagrams :3)

#fence posts #there is soooo so much more I could add but I am just so so tired and tomorrow is a beeg day hehe :3

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dwellordream · 5 months

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A British Nurse Was Found Guilty of Killing Seven Babies. Did She Do It?

Rachel Aviv, The New Yorker

“Last August, Lucy Letby, a thirty-three-year-old British nurse, was convicted of killing seven newborn babies and attempting to kill six others. Her murder trial, one of the longest in English history, lasted more than ten months and captivated the United Kingdom. The Guardian, which published more than a hundred stories about the case, called her “one of the most notorious female murderers of the last century.” The collective acceptance of her guilt was absolute. “She has thrown open the door to Hell,” the Daily Mail wrote, “and the stench of evil overwhelms us all.”

…The public conversation rushed forward without much curiosity about an incongruous aspect of the story: Letby appeared to have been a psychologically healthy and happy person. She had many close friends. Her nursing colleagues spoke highly of her care and dedication. A detective with the Cheshire police, which led the investigation, said, “This is completely unprecedented in that there doesn’t seem to be anything to say” about why Letby would kill babies. “There isn’t really anything we have found in her background that’s anything other than normal.”

The judge in her case, James Goss, acknowledged that Letby appeared to have been a “very conscientious, hard working, knowledgeable, confident and professional nurse.” But he also said that she had embarked on a “calculated and cynical campaign of child murder,” and he sentenced her to life, making her only the fourth woman in U.K. history condemned to die in prison. Although her punishment can’t be increased, she will face a second trial, this June, on an attempted-murder charge for which the jury could not reach a verdict.

Letby had worked on a struggling neonatal unit at the Countess of Chester Hospital, run by the National Health Service, in the West of England, near Wales. The case centered on a cluster of seven deaths, between June, 2015, and June, 2016. All but one of the babies were premature; three of them weighed less than three pounds. No one ever saw Letby harming a child, and the coroner did not find foul play in any of the deaths. (Since her arrest, Letby has not made any public comments, and a court order has prohibited most reporting on her case. To describe her experiences, I drew from more than seven thousand pages of court transcripts, which included police interviews and text messages, and from internal hospital records that were leaked to me.)

The case against her gathered force on the basis of a single diagram shared by the police, which circulated widely in the media. On the vertical axis were twenty-four “suspicious events,” which included the deaths of the seven newborns and seventeen other instances of babies suddenly deteriorating. On the horizontal axis were the names of thirty-eight nurses who had worked on the unit during that time, with X’s next to each suspicious event that occurred when they were on shift. Letby was the only nurse with an uninterrupted line of X’s below her name. She was the “one common denominator,” the “constant malevolent presence when things took a turn for the worse,” one of the prosecutors, Nick Johnson, told the jury in his opening statement. “If you look at the table overall the picture is, we suggest, self-evidently obvious. It’s a process of elimination.”

But the chart didn’t account for any other factors influencing the mortality rate on the unit. Letby had become the country’s most reviled woman—“the unexpected face of evil,” as the British magazine Prospect put it—largely because of that unbroken line. It gave an impression of mathematical clarity and coherence, distracting from another possibility: that there had never been any crimes at all.

Since Letby was a teen-ager, she had wanted to be a nurse. “She’d had a difficult birth herself, and she was very grateful for being alive to the nurses that would have helped save her life,” her friend Dawn Howe told the BBC. An only child, Letby grew up in Hereford, a city north of Bristol. In high school, she had a group of close friends who called themselves the “miss-match family”: they were dorky and liked to play games such as Cranium and Twister. Howe described Letby as the “most kind, gentle, soft friend.” Another friend said that she was “joyful and peaceful.”

Letby was the first person in her family to go to college. She got a nursing degree from the University of Chester, in 2011, and began working on the neonatal unit at the Countess of Chester Hospital, where she had trained as a student nurse. Chester was a hundred miles from Hereford, and her parents didn’t like her being so far away. “I feel very guilty for staying here sometimes but it’s what I want,” she told a colleague in a text message. She described the nursing team at the Countess as “like a little family.” She spent her free time with other nurses from the unit, often appearing in pictures on Facebook in flowery outfits and lip gloss, with sparkling wine in her hand and a guileless smile. She had straight blond hair, the color washing out as she aged, and she was unassumingly pretty.

The N.H.S. has a totemic status in the British psyche—it’s the “closest thing the English have to a religion,” as one politician has put it. One of the last remnants of the postwar social contract, it inspires loyalty and awe even as it has increasingly broken down, partly as a result of years of underfunding. In 2015, the infant-mortality rate in England and Wales rose for the first time in a century. A survey found that two-thirds of the country’s neonatal units did not have enough medical and nursing staff. That year, the Countess treated more babies than it had in previous years, and they had, on average, lower birth weights and more complex medical needs.

Letby, who lived in staff housing on the hospital grounds, was twenty-five years old and had just finished a six-month course to become qualified in neonatal intensive care. She was one of only two junior nurses on the unit with that training. “We had massive staffing issues, where people were coming in and doing extra shifts,” a senior nurse on the unit said. “It was mainly Lucy that did a lot.” She was young, single, and saving to buy a house. That year, when a friend suggested that she take some time off, Letby texted her, “Work is always my priority.”

In June, 2015, three babies died at the Countess. First, a woman with antiphospholipid syndrome, a rare disorder that can cause blood clotting, was admitted to the hospital. She was thirty-one weeks pregnant with twins, and had planned to give birth in London, so that a specialist could monitor her and the babies, but her blood pressure had quickly risen, and she had to have an emergency C-section at the Countess. The next day, Letby was asked to cover a colleague’s night shift. She was assigned one of the twins, a boy, who has been called Child A. (The court order forbade identifying the children, their parents, and some nurses and doctors.)

A nursing note from the day shift said that the baby had had “no fluids running for a couple of hours,” because his umbilical catheter, a tube that delivers fluids through the abdomen, had twice been placed in the wrong position, and “doctors busy.” A junior doctor eventually put in a longline, a thin tube threaded through a vein, and Letby and another nurse gave the child fluid. Twenty minutes later, Letby and a third nurse, a few feet away, noticed that his oxygen levels were dropping and that his skin was mottled. The doctor who had inserted the longline worried that he had placed it too close to the child’s heart, and he immediately took it out. But, less than ninety minutes after Letby started her shift, the baby was dead. “It was awful,” she wrote to a colleague afterward. “He died very suddenly and unexpectedly just after handover.”

A pathologist observed that the baby had “crossed pulmonary arteries,” a structural anomaly, and there was also a “strong temporal relationship” between the insertion of the longline and the collapse. The pathologist described the cause of death as “unascertained.”

Letby was on duty again the night after Child A’s death. At around midnight, she helped the nurse who had been assigned to the surviving twin, a girl, set up her I.V. bag. About twenty-five minutes later, the baby’s skin became purple and blotchy, and her heart rate dropped. She was resuscitated and recovered. Brearey, the unit’s leader, told me that at the time he wondered if the twins had been more vulnerable because of the mother’s disorder; antibodies for it can pass through the placenta.

The next day, a mother who had been diagnosed as having a dangerous placenta condition gave birth to a baby boy who weighed one pound, twelve ounces, which was on the edge of the weight threshold that the unit was certified to treat. Within four days, the baby developed acute pneumonia. Letby was not working in the intensive-care nursery, where the baby was treated, but after the child’s oxygen alarm went off she came into the room to help. Yet the staff on the unit couldn’t save the baby. A pathologist determined that he had died of natural causes.

Several days later, a woman came to the hospital after her water broke. She was sent home and told to wait. More than twenty-four hours later, she noticed that the baby was making fewer movements inside her. “I was concerned for infection because I hadn’t been given any antibiotics,” she said later. She returned to the hospital, but she still wasn’t given antibiotics. She felt “forgotten by the staff, really,” she said. Sixty hours after her water broke, she had a C-section.

The baby, a girl who was dusky and limp when she was born, should have been treated with antibiotics immediately, doctors later acknowledged, but nearly four hours passed before she was given the medication. The next night, the baby’s oxygen alarm went off. “Called Staff Nurse Letby to help,” a nurse wrote. The baby continued to deteriorate throughout the night and could not be revived. A pathologist found pneumonia in the baby’s lungs and wrote that the infection was likely present at birth.

The senior pediatricians met to review the deaths, to see if there were any patterns or mistakes. “One of the problems with neonatal deaths is that preterm babies can die suddenly and you don’t always get the answer immediately,” Brearey told me. A study of about a thousand infant deaths in southeast London, published in The Journal of Maternal-Fetal & Neonatal Medicine, found that the cause of mortality was unexplained for about half the newborns who had died unexpectedly, even after an autopsy. Brearey observed that Letby was involved in each of the deaths at the Countess, but “it didn’t sound to me like the odds were that extreme of having a nurse present for three of those cases,” he said. “Nobody had any concerns about her practice.”

…At the end of January, 2016, the senior pediatricians met with a neonatologist at a nearby hospital, to review the ward’s mortality data. In 2013 and 2014, the unit had had two and three deaths, respectively. In 2015, there had been eight. At the meeting, “there were a few learning points, nothing particularly exciting,” Brearey recalled. Near the end, he asked the neonatologist what he thought about the fact that Letby was present for each death. “I can’t remember him suggesting anything, really,” Brearey said.

But Jayaram and Brearey were increasingly troubled by the link. “It was like staring at a Magic Eye picture,” Jayaram told me. “At first, it’s just a load of dots,” and the dots are incoherent. “But you stare at them, and all of a sudden the picture appears. And then, once you can see that picture, you see it every time you look, and you think, How the hell did I miss that?” By the spring of 2016, he said, he could not “unsee it.”

Many of the deaths had occurred at night, so Powell, the unit manager, shifted Letby primarily to day shifts, because there would be “more people about to be able to support her,” she said.

A week later, a mother gave birth to identical triplet boys, born at thirty-three weeks. When she was pregnant, the mother said, she had been told that each baby would have his own nurse, but Letby, who had just returned from a short trip to Spain with friends, was assigned two of the triplets, as well as a third baby from a different family. She was also training a student nurse who was “glued to me,” she complained to Taylor. Seven hours into Letby’s shift, one of the triplet’s oxygen levels dropped precipitously, and he developed a rash on his chest. Letby called for help. After two rounds of CPR, the baby died.

The next day, Letby was the designated nurse for the two surviving triplets. The abdomen of one of them appeared distended, a possible sign of infection. When she told Taylor, he messaged her, “I wonder if they’ve all been exposed to a bug that benzylpenicillin and gentamicin didn’t account for? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, just don’t want to be here really,” Letby replied. The student nurse was still with her, and Letby told Taylor, “I don’t feel I’m in the frame of mind to support her properly.”

A doctor came to check on the triplet with the distended abdomen, and, while he was in the room, the child’s oxygen levels dropped. The baby was put on a ventilator, and the hospital asked for a transport team to take him to Liverpool Women’s Hospital. As they were waiting, it was discovered that the baby had a collapsed lung, possibly a result of pressure from the ventilation, which was set unusually high. “There was an increasing sense of anxiety on the unit,” Letby said later. “Nobody seemed to know what was happening and very much just wanted the transport team to come and offer their expertise.”

The triplets’ mother said that she was alarmed when she saw a doctor sitting at a computer “Googling how to do what looked like a relatively simple medical procedure: inserting a line into the chest.” She was also upset that one of the doctors who was resuscitating her son was “coughing and spluttering into her hands” without washing them. Shortly after the transport team arrived, the second triplet died. His mother recalled that Letby was “in pieces and almost as upset as we were.”

…Brearey, Jayaram, and a few other pediatric consultants met to discuss the unexpected deaths. “We were trying to rack our brains,” Brearey said. A postmortem X-ray of one of the babies had shown gas near the skull, a finding that the pathologist did not consider particularly meaningful, since gas is often present after death. Jayaram remembered learning in medical school about air embolisms—a rare, potentially catastrophic complication that can occur when air bubbles enter a person’s veins or arteries, blocking blood supply. That night, he searched for literature about the phenomenon.

He did not see any cases of murder by air embolism, but he forwarded his colleagues a four-page paper, from 1989, in the Archives of Disease in Childhood, about accidental air embolism. The authors of the paper could find only fifty-three cases in the world. All but four of the infants had died immediately. In five cases, their skin became discolored. “I remember the physical chill that went down my spine,” Jayaram said. “It fitted with what we were seeing.”

…After Letby returned from vacation, she was called in for a meeting. The deputy director of nursing told her that she was the common element in the cluster of deaths, and that her clinical competence would need to be reassessed. “She was distraught,” Powell, the unit manager, who was also at the meeting, said. “We were both quite upset.” They walked straight from the meeting to human resources. “We were trying to get Lucy back on the unit, so we had to try and prove that the competency issue wasn’t the problem,” Powell said.

But Letby never returned to clinical duties. She was eventually moved to an administrative role in the hospital’s risk-and-safety office. Jayaram described the office as “almost an island of lost souls. If there was a nurse who wasn’t very good clinically, or a manager who they wanted to get out of the way, they’d move them to the risk-and-safety office.”

…The Royal College team interviewed Letby and described her as “an enthusiastic, capable and committed nurse” who was “passionate about her career and keen to progress.” The redacted section concluded that the senior pediatricians had made allegations based on “simple correlation” and “gut feeling,” and that they had a “subjective view with no other evidence.” The Royal College could find no obvious factors linking the deaths; the report noted that the circumstances on the unit were “not materially different from those which might be found in many other neonatal units within the UK.” In a public statement, the hospital acknowledged that the review had revealed problems with “staffing, competencies, leadership, team working and culture.”

…In May, the police launched what they called Operation Hummingbird. A detective later said that Brearey and Jayaram provided the “golden thread of our investigation.” That month, Dewi Evans, a retired pediatrician from Wales, who had been the clinical director of the neonatal and children’s department at his hospital, saw a newspaper article describing, in vague terms, a criminal investigation into the spike in deaths at the Countess. “If the Chester police had no-one in mind I’d be interested to help,” he wrote in an e-mail to the National Crime Agency, which helps connect law enforcement with scientific experts. “Sounds like my kind of case.”

That summer, Evans, who was sixty-seven and had worked as a paid court expert for more than twenty-five years, drove three and a half hours to Cheshire, to meet with the police. After reviewing records that the police gave him, he wrote a report proposing that Child A’s death was “consistent with his receiving either a noxious substance such as potassium chloride or more probably that he suffered his collapse as a result of an air embolus.” Later, when it became clear that there was no basis for suspecting a noxious chemical, Evans concluded that the cause of death was air embolism. “These are cases where your diagnosis is made by ruling out other factors,” he said.

…Evans relied heavily on the paper in other reports that he wrote about the Countess deaths, many of which he attributed to air embolism. Other babies, he said, had been harmed through another method: the intentional injection of too much air or fluid, or both, into their nasogastric tubes. “This naturally ‘blows up’ the stomach,” he wrote to me. The stomach becomes so large, he said, that the lungs can’t inflate normally, and the baby can’t get enough oxygen. When I asked him if he could point me to any medical literature about this process, he responded, “There are no published papers regarding a phenomenon of this nature that I know of.” (Several doctors I interviewed were baffled by this proposed method of murder and struggled to understand how it could be physiologically or logistically possible.)

…Nearly a year after Operation Hummingbird began, a new method of harm was added to the list. In the last paragraph of a baby’s discharge letter, Brearey, who had been helping the police by reviewing clinical records, noticed a mention of an abnormally high level of insulin. When insulin is produced naturally by the body, the level of C-peptide, a substance secreted by the pancreas, should also be high, but in this baby the C-peptide was undetectable, which suggested that insulin may have been administered to the child.

The insulin test had been done at a Royal Liverpool University Hospital lab, and a biochemist there had called the Countess to recommend that the sample be verified by a more specialized lab. Guidelines on the Web site for the Royal Liverpool lab explicitly warn that its insulin test is “not suitable for the investigation” of whether synthetic insulin has been administered. Alan Wayne Jones, a forensic toxicologist at Linköping University, in Sweden, who has written about the use of insulin as a means of murder, told me that the test used at the Royal Liverpool lab is “not sufficient for use as evidence in a criminal prosecution.” He said, “Insulin is not an easy substance to analyze, and you would need to analyze this at a forensic laboratory, where the routines are much more stringent regarding chain of custody, using modern forensic technology.” But the Countess never ordered a second test, because the child had already recovered.

…The police consulted with an endocrinologist, who said that the babies theoretically could have received insulin through their I.V. bags. Evans said that, with the insulin cases, “at last one could find some kind of smoking gun.” But there was a problem: the blood sample for the first baby had been taken ten hours after Letby had left the hospital; any insulin delivered by her would no longer be detectable, especially since the tube for the first I.V. bag had fallen out of place, which meant that the baby had to be given a new one. To connect Letby to the insulin, one would have to believe that she had managed to inject insulin into a bag that a different nurse had randomly chosen from the unit’s refrigerator. If Letby had been successful at causing immediate death by air embolism, it seems odd that she would try this much less effective method.

In July, 2018, five months after the insulin discovery, a Cheshire police detective knocked on Letby’s door. …Inside, she was told that she was under arrest for multiple counts of murder and attempted murder. She emerged from the house handcuffed, her face appearing almost gray.

The police spent the day searching her house. Inside, they found a note with the heading “NOT GOOD ENOUGH.” There were several phrases scrawled across the page at random angles and without punctuation: “There are no words”; “I can’t breathe”; “Slander Discrimination”; “I’ll never have children or marry I’ll never know what it’s like to have a family”; “WHY ME?”; “I haven’t done anything wrong”; “I killed them on purpose because I’m not good enough to care for them”; “I AM EVIL I DID THIS.”

On another scrap of paper, she had written, three times, “Everything is manageable,” a phrase that a colleague had said to her. At the bottom of the page, she had written, “I just want life to be as it was. I want to be happy in the job that I loved with a team who I felt a part of. Really, I don’t belong anywhere. I’m a problem to those who do know me.” On another piece of paper, found in her handbag, she had written, “I can’t do this any more. I want someone to help me but they can’t.” She also wrote, “We tried our best and it wasn’t enough.”

After spending all day in jail, Letby was asked why she had written the “not good enough” note. A police video shows her in the interrogation room with her hands in her lap, her shoulders hunched forward. She spoke quietly and deferentially, like a student facing an unexpectedly harsh exam. “It was just a way of me getting my feelings out onto paper,” she said. “It just helps me process.”

“In your own mind, had you done anything wrong at all?” an officer asked.

“No, not intentionally, but I was worried that they would find that my practice hadn’t been good,” she said, adding, “I thought maybe I had missed something, maybe I hadn’t acted quickly enough.”

…After more than nine hours of interviews, Letby was released on bail, without being charged. She moved back to Hereford, to live with her parents. News of her arrest was published in papers throughout the U.K. “All I can say is my experience is that she was a great nurse,” a mother whose baby was treated at the Countess told the Times of London. Another mother told the Guardian that Letby had advocated for her and had told her “every step of the way what was happening.” She said, “I can’t say anything negative about her.” The Guardian also interviewed a mother who described the experience of giving birth at the Countess. “They had no staff and the care was just terrible,” she said. She’d developed “an infection which was due to negligence by a member of staff,” she explained. “We made a complaint at the time but it was brushed under the carpet.”

In September, 2022, a month before Letby’s trial began, the Royal Statistical Society published a report titled “Healthcare Serial Killer or Coincidence?” The report had been prompted in part by concerns about two recent cases, one in Italy and one in the Netherlands, in which nurses had been wrongly convicted of murder largely because of a striking association between their shift patterns and the deaths on their wards. The society sent the report to both the Letby prosecution and the defense team. It detailed the dangers of drawing causal conclusions from improbable clusters of events. In the trial of the Dutch nurse, Lucia de Berk, a criminologist had calculated that there was a one-in-three-hundred-and-forty-two-million chance that the deaths were coincidental.

But his methodology was faulty; when statisticians looked at the data, they found that the chances were closer to one in fifty. According to Ton Derksen, a Dutch philosopher of science who wrote a book about the case, the belief that “such a coincidence cannot be a coincidence” became the driving force in the process of collecting evidence against de Berk. She was exonerated in 2010, and her case is now considered one of the worst miscarriages of justice in Dutch history. The Italian nurse, Daniela Poggiali, was exonerated in 2021, after statisticians reanalyzed her hospital’s mortality data and discovered several confounding factors that had been overlooked.

Burkhard Schafer, a law professor at the University of Edinburgh who studies the intersection of law and science, said that it appeared as if the Letby prosecution had “learned the wrong lessons from previous miscarriages of justice.” Instead of making sure that its statistical figures were accurate, the prosecution seems to have ignored statistics. “Looking for a responsible human—this is what the police are good at,” Schafer told me. “What is not in the police’s remit is finding a systemic problem in an organization like the National Health Service, after decades of underfunding, where you have overworked people cutting little corners with very vulnerable babies who are already in a risk category. It is much more satisfying to say there was a bad person, there was a criminal, than to deal with the outcome of government policy.”

…For one baby, the diagram showed Letby working a night shift, but this was an error: she was working day shifts at the time, so there should not have been an X by her name. At trial, the prosecution argued that, though the baby had deteriorated overnight, the suspicious episode actually began three minutes after Letby arrived for her day shift. Nonetheless, the inaccurate diagram continued to be published, even by the Cheshire police.

Dewi Evans, the retired pediatrician, told me that he had picked which medical episodes rose to the level of “suspicious events.” When I asked what his criteria were, he said, “Unexpected, precipitous, anything that is out of the usual—something with which you are not familiar.” For one baby, the distinction between suspicious and not suspicious largely came down to how to define projectile vomiting.

…Toward the end of the trial, the court received an e-mail from someone who claimed to have overheard one of the jurors at a café saying that jurors had “already made up their minds about her case from the start.” Goss reviewed the complaint but ultimately allowed the juror to continue serving.

He instructed the twelve members of the jury that they could find Letby guilty even if they weren’t “sure of the precise harmful act” she’d committed. In one case, for instance, Evans had proposed that a baby had died of excessive air in her stomach from her nasogastric tube, and then, when it emerged that she might not have had a nasogastric tube, he proposed that she may have been smothered.

The jury deliberated for thirteen days but could not reach a unanimous decision. In early August, one juror dropped out. A few days later, Goss told the jury that he would accept a 10–1 majority verdict. Ten days later, it was announced that the jury had found Letby guilty of fourteen charges. The two insulin cases and one of the triplet charges were unanimous; the rest were majority verdicts. When the first set of verdicts was read, Letby sobbed. After the second set, her mother cried out, “You can’t be serious!” Letby was acquitted of two of the attempted-murder charges. There were also six attempted-murder charges in which the jury could not decide on a verdict.

…The public conversation about the case seemed to treat details about poor care on the unit as if they were irrelevant. In his closing statement, Johnson had accused the defense of “gaslighting” the jury by suggesting that the problem was the hospital, not Letby. Defending himself against the accusation, Myers told the jury, “It’s important I make it plain that in no way is this case about the N.H.S. in general.” He assured the jury, “We all feel strongly about the N.H.S. and we are protective of it.” It seemed easier to accept the idea of a sadistic “angel of death” than to look squarely at the fact that families who had trusted the N.H.S. had been betrayed, their faith misplaced.”

#medicine #word to the wise

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