#is it because hes partially built from a corpse. is it because he only understands hatred and violence. is it because hes bald.

[seriema]

what wonderful sons you've got there, mr. geppetto!

[pastelcheckereddreams]

Finally ready to talk about how Nie Huaisang’s revelation of his Sect’s immoral sacrifices to the Sword Spirit in Fatal Journey directly calls back to the main show’s overarching plot re: the vilification of the entire Wen clan, and the subsequent persecution of Wei Wuxian for attempting to stand up for the Dafan Wen sect.

Most notably, this parallel occurs as Nie Huaisang challenges his brother on why the Nie can heartlessly sacrifice human beings for the sake of controlling the sword spirit:

["This is not balance, but sacrificing flesh and blood."]

I don’t think I can even try to describe how this line so perfectly frames the ideological argument of the value of human life against some higher measure of worth. Especially as Zonghui tries to reason that:

["Those corpses belong to evil men."]

To the contrary, this only serves to strengthen Nie Huaisang’s conviction, because it doesn’t matter to him if they were good or evil. He looks straight into his older brother’s eyes as he counters:

["Aren't they human beings?"]

Consider the weight of the entire chronological plot of MDZS, of Wei Wuxian’s character arc, until this moment:

How, at this point in the main story’s time-skip, Nie Huaisang may still be grieving the loss of his friend and trying to reconcile his experience of Wei-xiong's character with the reputation of Yiling Laozu - and how that reputation was both built up and torn down by the very Sect leaders who remain in power: his brother included.  

Consider how Nie Huaisang, in this moment, may remember that his dear friend stood up against everyone - again, the Nie included - when he dared speak out against this same polarised judgement of good and evil, and how Wei-xiong died for it.

And so now, here, Nie Huaisang finally dares to ask - 

“Are you qualified for deciding their fate?”

Of course, at this point, we know that Nie Mingjue himself was a young leader newly minted by war, trying to balance the welfare of his clan against the will of the more powerful sects, and that (more pertinent to the plot of Fatal Journey) he is simply trying to maintain Nie tradition and carry out the role he has been taught to assume since childhood.

But just like his friend before him (and with a fair amount of desperation, considering this might very well be the moment Nie Huaisang fully comprehends the consequences of Dage’s illness - that he will eventually, and is already, sacrificing himself for the same end) Nie Huaisang dares to ask his brother, “Even if [our ancestors] are wrong, you would follow their lead?”

This scene is, of course, much more than an echo of past prejudices from the war against the Wen. It becomes a question of Nie Mingjue’s sanity - how much his illness is influencing his perception of reality, and how it not only perpetuates the prejudices from the war, but also actively harms the Nie by exposing the skewed morals at the core of their clan identity.

But that aside, it is this conflict of ideology that Nie Huaisang exposes which brings us right back to Wei Wuxian, and his stand against the main Sects and their systematic prejudice. In this moment, Nie Huaisang recognises that same flaw, and calls it out in his brother - not only for his current actions, but (with some internal, existential horror) for the crimes of their ancestors the Nie are built upon: sacrificing human beings in order to maintain a fallacy of harmony that is ultimately corrupt.

I wonder if Nie Huaisang would later think back on this moment and grieve in understanding for his friend.

I wonder if his choices from then on - from this moment of Fatal Journey to the resurrection of Wei Wuxian, and further - Nie Huaisang's actions were partially guided by the example of Wei Wuxian.

Am I thinking about a demonic cultivator Nie Huaisang now? Yes absolutely.

I could go on, but I’m gunna stop here. I’m just so full of feelings for the character growth of Nie Huaisang in Fatal Journey.

[thedeathdoctor]

Kinktober Day 5: Blood Play

Blood Play - Halloween: Michael Meyers x Reader

Guardian Demon

Tw for Breaking and Entering, Being held at gunpoint

It was ten past two in the morning when you pulled your 2003 Altima into the driveway. Fucking Steve. Ever since he had started as manager, your store had been pathetically understaffed. He never stuck around past four and never saw how long closing duties took. It was just you and Allison now, because “we don’t really need three people in here when we don’t get that many customers, anyway”. 

You shoved your work apron into your purse laying on the passenger seat before dragging yourself out of the car. Everything felt heavy, and your keys dangled limply in your hand. A thought resurfaced in your weary head: the pothole you had hit on your way to work because the assholes wouldn’t let you merge over to avoid it. It sounded expensive, but you had managed to get home, so you just gave a quick glance at it. You weren’t much of a car person, and it was dark; you’d look at it again in the morning. 

Leaning against the peeling paint of your side door, you fit the key in the lock, and found it unlocked. What? Maybe you had forgotten to lock up when you rushed to work this afternoon. Henry had called out for the third day in a row, and they had called you to come in earlier to cover for him. You didn’t want to, but you had to. The shitty washer that came with the unit had broken, and your landlord had refused to take care of it because clearly you had misused it in order for that to happen. A contractor had come out to fix it yesterday; the work was expensive,  he unsettled you in a way you couldn’t place, and in the middle of it all Steve called to ask where you were. He seemed to forget how you told him, to his face, three times, “I won’t be in on Wednesday, do not schedule me,” and still his chicken nugget sized brain forgot and expected you to come in. 

You shook your head, trying to clear your mind of the work fuckery from your head like an Etch-a-Sketch. It took up enough real estate in your head as is. 

Snacks. 

You dropped your purse on the mess of mail that covered your kitchen table. It would be sorted later. For now, you took your phone with you and rummaged through the cabinets, finding the box of Goldfish you had bought Monday. You padded into the living room, settling down into the couch. Though you lived alone, you had slept here for the past few nights on account of clutter spread over your bed. Well, it was mostly organized. Monday you had found the least sketchiest laundromat in your fifteen mile radius for the three weeks of laundry built up while you fought with your landlord. After all, there was a finite amount of times you could handle rewearing your work clothes before the thought of having to pay for laundry became begrudgingly tolerable. 

The waist of your pants cut into your waist, and you stripped them off and threw them towards the stairs with a growl. Your bra was next, and soon you were comfortable in your tank top and underwear. It had also been an embarrassing amount of time since you had vacuumed the floor, so your socks stayed on to keep your feet clean. 

“Honey, if you ever need help, I can always come over and clean with you. It’s really no problem for me.” 

Your mom’s voice reappeared in your head, kind and soothing. Truth was, you needed help, but couldn’t bring yourself to accept her offer. It was out of mercy. You didn’t want her to come over and see for herself how you, her precious daughter was really doing. She worried for you enough as is, and anyway, you were doing just fine, no need for her to see the bottles that frequently piled up in the yellow bin next to the door or the refrigerator that didn’t hold much excluding the condiments on the door, or the condition of your bathroom sink. You spared her the worry she would feel if she knew. Anyway, you could handle it, all you needed was another day off to take care of everything, two at max. 

Turning on the tv, you chose a random episode of Criminal Minds to watch to distract your brain. It had been your comfort show since you started watching it in 2011, and it filled the otherwise quiet space of the house. You apathetically ate a handful of Goldfish before folding the box back up and letting it drop on the ground. That wasn’t it. Occasionally, lights drifted across the interior of your house, headlights drifting in from the living room window as the occasional car passed by. 

A loud crash shocked you awake from the doldrums of half-sleep. Your eyes shot open as your heart revved from 0 -100, realizing that the sound came from upstairs. Fuck. There were footsteps now. Scrambling to find your phone to call 911, your heart sunk as the screen flickered to life for just enough time to blink its “low battery” icon at you before giving up. You did have a .357, but one too many nights with the bottle led you to disassemble it as much as you could and shove the pieces into a shoebox at the back of your closet, if only for your mom’s sake. 

You listened with bated breath as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs and began to descend. Every single muscle in your body did not reply, even as your mind screamed for you to run. You were frozen to the couch. 

A man, partially dressed in a dirty work coverall tied around the waist at the bottom of a grimy undershirt strode aggressively over to you. A black ski mask hid his face, but you could see his eye twitch as he raised the Glock in his hand to your face. His voice was strained and rough as he questioned you.

“WHERE ARE THEY??” 

“Where is what?” 

You didn’t have much of value at all, the most expensive thing that you had to your name was the Altima sitting outside and that was only $6,000 when you bought it a few years ago. 

“PILLS, SMARTASS. DON’T LIE TO ME. I SAW THE EMPTY BOTTLES. WHERE DO YOU KEEP THEM?” 

Oh. Truth be told, you didn’t have any left. All you had ever really taken was your Adderall XR and Zoloft. The empty Adderall bottle sat pathetically on your dresser, reminding you of the last time you had been able to afford the copay the pharmacy demanded. As for the Zoloft, well, your psychiatrist would keep refilling it as long as you kept showing up to her regular appointments, and the spontaneity of work had made it damn near impossible to keep an appointment with her. So it had been at least a few days since you had tried to taper off of them yourself. But you were unmedicated and well beyond tired, so you responded rather dumbly. 

“I don’t have any more. They’re gone. Sorry.” 

He didn’t react well to that, gritting his teeth and kicking over a folding chair that left a rather large hole in the drywall. Your fucking landlord would have a field day haranguing you for those damages. 

The side door that you had taken care to lock swung open violently, knocking over the bottles perched on the top of the pile in the recycling bin. Heavy footsteps strode through the kitchen and another man appeared behind the first intruder.

“HEY WHAT THE FUC-”

He was cut off as he was violently disarmed, gun clattering to the floor as a blade slashed through every tendon in his arm. Then, his body flew across the room and crashed head first into the Walmart bookshelf and the few books you had left with a horrific crunch. He was crumpled in a way that no human should ever be, and still the other man kneeled and plunged his knife between his ribs, ventilating his body as you would a frozen microwavable meal. And then slowly, stood up and turned to face you. 

He was impossibly tall, looming over the man who had tried to rob you; like him, he was also dressed in a coverall, bluish grey and relatively cleaner aside from the blood splashed across the front. His head was covered too, by one of those rubbery Halloween costume masks that people wear and pretend to be a serial killer or something. Matthew, or maybe Michael? You glanced over at the mutilated corpse at his feet, and the real, actual knife in his hand, still dripping with blood. You didn’t think he was pretending.

You cowered in the corner of the couch, your knees pulled up as close to your chin as possible, shaking uncontrollably. He walked closer to you, stretching out his free hand, and for some reason beyond your understanding, you took it. Your legs trembled like those of a newborn fawn, but you stayed up, mostly due to his hidden strength. Together, you both made your way over to the dead body, letting you collapse to your knees next to it. He dipped the tip of the knife into the man’s blood and brought it to your face. A scream died in your throat as he grabbed your jaw and steadied you as the blade traced over your forehead and cheekbones, painting you with the blood of his kill. On your stomach, he marked you with a simple “MM”. Michael Meyers. You were his. 

When he was done, he pressed you to the floor on your back and stripped you of your tank top and panties with a few quick flicks of his knife. His hands worked the jumpsuit zipper down as he shed his clothing and towered over you. He stroked his cock lazily, enjoying the look on your face as you realized that he wanted to put it deep in you. You were his and he was going to consummate your partnership, right here, right now.

He spread your legs and kneeled between them. It had been a while since you last had any kind of sexual encounter, but the patch of curls was of no consequence to him. Blood slicked his fingers, and you were surprised how expertly the pad of his thumb found your clit, kneading you to orgasm in spite of the horror you had just witnessed. Perfect.

He teased you, running his fingertips up and down your vulva until your hands urged him to get on with it. That was a mistake. He snapped your hands together and held you firmly by your wrists with his free hand. Punishment for being too impatient. Two fingers found your entrance before suddenly plunging into you as deep as they could. Your gasp satisfied him and he returned his thumb to your clit as his fingers pistoned into you at a punishing pace. 

The second orgasm crashed through your body, your arms weakly trembling against his fierce grip as you screamed out in pleasure. When your eyes returned to him, the submission he saw drove him mad with desire. He gripped your hips so hard, you were sure that you would see bruises in the morning, and slid you onto his cock, hissing softly as he entered you. God, he spread you apart like no one ever had before. 

You weren’t the most petite person in the world, but to him and his strength, you may as well have been. He slammed you against him, your thighs stinging as they met his hips, fucking you as if you were a filthy toy, a cocksleeve for him to use as he wanted, whenever he wanted. He paused for a moment, sliding his hands up under your back and supporting you with his arms as he stood up, still inside you. Your thighs wrapped around his waist, feeling the muscles in his torso and ass flex against you. His hips thrust up into you as he held you up in the air, gravity working alongside his powerful body as he ravaged you. Moans dribbled from your mouth as most of your upper body went limp. The back of your head crashed against the wall, but you didn’t care, your body was flooded in ecstasy as you came over and over, writhing in his arms and twitching helplessly around his cock. His fingernails dragged long, deep scratches along your back that smeared and stained the wall with blood as he pressed you against it, his breaths deep, panting, heavy with lust. 

Time lost all meaning to you as he broke you down to a sopping, quivering mess in his arms. It seemed he was intent on folding you in half and pressing you against the wall before his breaths hitched and pulled you as close as he physically could to him. His hips bucked involuntarily as he came deep into you, filling you with copious spurts of his cum. It took on a pinkish tone as it mixed with the blood from earlier, dripping from where your hips met. You were spent, falling asleep before he had let the both of you fall ever so gently to the floor, letting you rest on top of his chest. 

[deconstructivesurgery]

Dayshift At Freddy's Characters 101 ( Part 1 )

Turns out I really love posting shitpost analyses of characters, so here I go again, baybee. I left some characters out that I didn't have a lot to say about, and also because this post is gonna be long enough as-is.

( these are my own interpretations of the characters, and what I think of them, of course, :D )

Part One: Jack's Family, and the Phones <3

Jack: Sinister in both appearance and attitude, Jack's talent for being unsettling is rivaled only by his penchant for completely unexplainable, and often quite immature actions. As the playable character, a lot about his morality and personality is pretty flexible and depends on who's playing the game, but one thing's always certain. If he ever offers you pizza, fucking run. The cheapskate probably made that shit with dumpster meat and soap flakes instead of cheese.

Dee: Further solidifying how strange Jack's family tree is ( I mean, he's a literal corpse, and his brother's got a phone for a head ) Dee takes the form of a lanky plastic puppet, stuck as a vengeful ghost of her 6-year old self. Dedicated to her cause of saving all the lost souls of the ghostly Flipside, where the unrestful spirits of Freddy's victims rest, she spends most of her time arguing with her brother, or fighting him, should he make the wrong choices. Talk about sibling rivalry.

Peter: I honestly have nothing to say about Peter, but I think that, in itself, says everything you need to know about him. He's like if white bread was a person, but a person with a phone for ahead. ( /lh ) Oh yeah, and he really, REALLY doesn't like trumpet players.

Steven: When Steven isn't doing everything in his power to cover up the criminal activity going on in the restaurant he runs, he's actively participating in it, by outright killing employees that don't live up to his standards by snapping the springlocks in their suit, and outright covering up any death or accident that happens within Freddy's walls. Steven will pretty much do anything to keep his job, because being fired is a death sentence for a phone-head like him. Like most phone guys, Steven's brain has been messed with a fair bit, leaving him with an obsession with Foxy, and fake memories of being a man named Scott with a wife and kids. Asides from being a ruthless bastard of a boss, it's a great thing that he was never actually a parent- as he lets his fake robot-childer run rampant through Freddy's halls, despite knowing how dangerous it is.

Jake: One of the few phone guys capable of swearing, despite the in-built censorship in the AI that partially makes up every phone guy's mechanical brain, Jake is the only DSAF 3 employee you can hire that's brave enough to speak up if his tangerine-colored boss steps out of line. Despite not having a mouth, the man also somehow smokes, and is pretty much the living combination of the "I eat cigarettes YUM" video mixed with Marlin from Finding Nemo. Because yeah, he has some of the memories from his old life still kicking around in his little rotary head and had to go on an entire voyage to find his child when he remembered he had one. Too bad he'd been missing for years, and his son had grown up without him. Also too bad that he refused to even try to speak to said son due to having a self-esteem crisis and considering himself a monster. Guess having a rotary phone for a head isn't all it's cracked up to be. At least he still has his cigarettes, I guess?

Harry: "War. War never changes." - him, probably. In all honesty, I genuinely don't remember much about Harry, which is ironic ( I think, god knows if I understand irony at all ) because I'm pretty sure it's canon that he doesn't really remember shit about himself either, considering he was one of the first-ever Phone Guys and had his brain heavily tampered with as a result. All I remember is he didn't appreciate it when I made Godred the mascot of my restaurant, and apparently he was in a war. Oof.

Roger: Well-meaning, if a bit naive, Roger is straight outta the 90s, and is thusly one of the newest Phone Guys around, lacking a lot of the experience with tragedy and desensitization that comes with being a part of the franchise for ages. With a completely restored memory of his old life before becoming a phone-headed manager, you'd think he'd run for the hills and try to get back to the life he had before Freddy's- but turns out, his life wasn't actually much better before, according to him. And so he stays, and does his best to try and make the company a better place. Surely despite his nervous disposition, broken voice box, tendency to think the best of people even when they don't deserve it, and questionable boss, he'll be fine, right? The answer depends on you, I guess.

[oz-corp-uplink-t]

Good evening. I figured it would be a good idea to describe our area in detail, both the one we're in now and the one from whence we came. This will be in chronological order, from first discovered to most recently discovered. I hope you all don't mind the formality. This is simply how I normally converse, and I do not see any reason to be any more or less formal than normal.

--Homeworld: GemsGoldia--

Our Homeworld was a unique one, compared to the more Earthly planets of most other universes. It was an entire planet made of crystals and gems, and the general climate of an area depended on the gemstone that comprised the most of an area. Green Emerald areas were usually perfectly warm, red Ruby areas were much hotter and had a tendency to contain magma geysers, blue Sapphire areas were more or less frozen wastes, and a few other, more unnatural climates, such as constant lighting storms over yellow variants of gemstones, and complete and utter darkness in Obsidian areas.

When I first appeared here, I was the only one. I saw the Creator soon after, and he told me what I should do. The Creator's form in our worlds is quite odd, actually. He's two hands and a head, and he tends to change size often, though he's always bigger than me. His hands have white gloves, and I'm certain I've seen they are connected to his head by fishing line or puppet strings. His head is just a black sphere with extremely triangular teeth and large, red eyes. It's more intimidating than it sounds.

Anyway, the factory/research lab we started with was already built when I showed up, along with quite a few houses, all made of the Emerald the ground was made of, and there were exactly enough for those that would appear soon after. There was an unfathomably gigantic generator in a basement within the factory, which I was told created an artificial atmosphere around the entire planet. Evidently, this was true, as it was destroyed in the destruction of the planet, and we have recorded several corpses of beings that need an atmosphere to survive.

--A strange new land: Mirrold--

I had escaped the destruction of GemsGoldia, and I had to find my way back alone. I went through several places, most of which seemed familiar and sparked... Memories, of past versions of myself. My first iteration looked similar to the creator, but I had a pale skin tone, my eyes were humanoid, my hair was green, and I had some nasty claws. I was a throwaway, used to add plot to a normal 'roleplay' (Which, as he told me, simply describes writing a story with more than one person, which I find to be an interesting concept) between good friends. I was to stop a wedding by killing the bride or groom, the bride being an original creation, from his friend, and the groom being another one of those... Skeleton characters. I think they called them Blueberry. I mortally wounded them, and was destroyed in revenge.

My next iteration was similar to the 000 model. I can't remember what I did as them, but I do remember that the Creator and his friend made fictional children for fictional versions of themselves. Apparently, this was my longest running form.

Then, we're at what I am now. A product of His creativity, depression from a long-passed break-up, of which he has told me was his own doing, and fantasies of escaping His world, and coming to ours. His mental state has left our world in ruin, and it seems like he may want this one to have a similar fate...

...Oh, right. I need to be talking about Mirrold. Forgive me, I tend to get far off-topic if I think about our home...

Mirrold is a mirror world, which I found in an apparently magical mirror in the ruins of GemsGoldia, which acted as a portal to here. This place consists of four islands and a deep pit under them, which we call Lower Mirrold.

--The glass shatters: Shatternia--

Shatternia is the only entrance to Mirrold that we know of. After you enter the mirror, you come out onto a catwalk suspended above Lower Mirrold, which looks like pitch blackness. This catwalk ends at a concrete building, where the Brokem, Ozwald, and Cordial base models reside. This is at the southernmost area of the island. To the west of this, there is a thick forest with various weak monsters within. The foliage on this island is always colored in a mix of reds and blues instead of the normal green you'd expect. To the north of the building, there is a toxic lake, and a bridge leading to a canyon with a large gate at the end, leading to the only town in the area, Shardini. If you go east from the building, there is a tram station, which connects to the next island over, and allows for transport between them. North of this is a mansion under constant snowfall, which is reminiscent of the home the Creator had imagined being in when with their friend. The Creator put a copy of his past self, specifically from the period of major depression over his relationship, in Mirrold, and they occasionally show up at this mansion and cry to themselves. They are hostile to any trespassers, but reminders of this failed relationship will stop them in their tracks.

I do recall, now that I think of it, there was another skeleton who became partially Corrupt, but never fully turned, and who lived with the models in the concrete building. Actually, they may have been an alternate version of Blueberry. I think the models that live there called them "Grape".

--A major downgrade: Junkedville--

It's much larger than Shatternia, but it's mostly empty desert. There is an exception: Salvagius. This is the one town in Junkedville, near the northern edge. Our factory rests at the northernmost point, and the rest of the place is houses and establishments made of sheet metal. The pub here is highly popular, mainly because it's impossible to die from overdrinking, as they add special ingredients that prevent death or impairments from extreme amounts, without lessening the actual enjoyment of it, including the drunkenness. This isn't completely effective, unfortunately, as you can tell from my entire workforce being in alchohol comas.

I did say that Shatternia was the only entrance, but that isn't completely true. In the factory, we are very capable of transporting people using the multiversal portals we have. We also considered opening them up to other creations for this uplink, but we aren't sure if it matters much anyway.

--Eternal war: Magicant--

Magicant is a small place, and there's not much left by now. Mages populated this place quite heavily before the Corruption followed us here. They have allied with us for the destruction of the Corruption, but they have blown half their island out of the sky trying to fight. There isn't much left to speak of...

--Mixed up anomaly: Lower Mirrold--

Lower Mirrold is... Difficult to understand. It's split into five sectors. These five sectors change randomly into portions of different worlds, bringing buildings, landscapes, and people with them into our own. This has caused many visitors to suddenly show up without intending to, and many strange scenarios where multiple characters and worlds combine in strange ways, causing strange situations. One we have documented in particular is still in progress, and the events until now are as follows.

1: Subject A ( Short/overweight/male, generally known as a thief, wears yellow and purple clothes, a cap with his first initial on it, and cyan eyeliner) receives a message from Subject B (Literally a fucking sponge) that proposes an exchange for taking B's job for a day in exchange for a stockpile of treasure. Subject A accepts, drives into ocean and finds Subject B's workplace.

It should be noted these two should not have known each other at all.

2: Subject A falls asleep on the job, establishment burns down. Subject A flees and finds stockpile. Subject B fires a nuclear bomb at his neighbor to threaten the arsonist who burned down the establishment. Subject A is transported to an unknown location for approximately 7 hours, before Lower Mirrold shifts again and any further events cease.

We have reason to believe whatever's been happening here is still happening now, but we have been too occupied with everything else we can't be certain.

--Core of Corruption: Corrupti--

Not much is known of Corrupti, other than Sally currently resides there and controls the Corrupted from it's core. It rose from Lower Mirrold some time after the event above had ceased. We don't know what to do about it, all we know is that it's ruining everything we worked so hard to achieve, and that we must end it... But we do not know how.

------------------------------------------------------------

A few closing statements...

Firstly, I have been informed the Creator has documented the Lower Mirrold events mentioned above. I haven't been told where, though. Just that it's "On my tube", or something. If you happen to figure something out there, that would be helpful.

Second, I'm not completely certain the Creator has fully gotten over what happened with his relationship. I don't know if that's why he seems to be reluctant to help us, but either way I'm sure he'll figure himself out sooner or later. I hope, anyway.

Good night to you all. I hope you haven't forgotten us.

Oh, and to those of you in bad times, (lookingatyourox) just know your pain doesn't last forever, and all wounds can be healed with help and time. Also, do not try to end your pain early. It will only spreas your pain to others, and, if there is a place after life, give you a worse pain in your ghost.

...Sorry, if I'm being a bit too grim here. I'm in quite a grim mood, unfortunately. I think the Creator is, too.

[tanoraqui]

I am a huge sucker for one character being chill about a situation while everyone else is freaking out, so if you’re up to it would you tell us about This Is Normal?

@tolrais​ asked: Sizhui genii locorum!

okay so i must disappoint bc that wasn’t actually a jesting “This Is Normal” - let’s talk genii locorum, known more commonly in the singular: genius loci, the “intellects of [the] place”. In this case: what if it was perfectly common that if cultivation was practiced in roughly the same way in roughly the exact same place, by roughly the same bloodline, for long enough, power built up in the land itself? Power and something resembling thought, in the slow way of geography? (That’s why it tends to attach to a bloodline - individual humans, even cultivators, disappear so fast on a geological scale.) 

Say that each generation, the land picks a favorite to bestow its power to - one person, one generation, at a time, only. Others of the blood may access it, but to a far lesser degree. Petty effects. More if the land is partial to them. The true wielder of the land is, of course, traditionally the sect leader - and if they’re not at first, they’re probably gonna be appointed as such.

Say the powers are elemental, roughly, Say their personalities are shaped by the land itself - lakes or mountains, hills or plains - and the continuous philosophy of those who cultivate (upon) them. They choose their favorites based on who most matches what they are, and the strongest sect leaders are those with the greatest affinity for their land.

Or, lemme put it like this: 

Lan Wangji was always GusuLan’s favorite, unwavering and fastidious, aloof and righteous and eternal as the cool mountain peaks. Its cool shrouded him; its ice turned Bichen’s edge even sharper. Even though he was far away in a land of fire, it flowed to him like a high-speed glacier when his father died - and he, panicking and desperate, denied it. 

It wasn’t the refusal that turned it away - though it’s true, one must actively accept a land’s power; it cannot be forced upon a person. But usually, in such a dispute, the wouldn’t-be recipient dies - in a fight between one human and an entire countryside over that human’s soul, it is acceptance or destruction. Instead, it was...well, the fact of refusal. The fact that he broke, that his gut instinct - resolute as ever - was the shirking of responsibility. That, GusuLan could not tolerate. It didn’t press the issue to destruction, because Lan Wangji wasn’t its chosen after all.

There was nothing, to be clear, wrong with Lan Xichen. He was a little warmer, but still beautiful and distant. He would bend, but his core was upright and unfaltering. He followed the rules to the letter. He was even closer, physically - and in that little cabin in which he was sleeping, hidden, he woke sharply from a restless sleep as the air around him turned to welcome ice.

Or like this:

Jiang Cheng was never YunmengJiang’s first choice. He wasn’t even its second choice. The lakes of YunmengJiang - bright and warm with sunlight, loud with the chatter of market crowds, sweet and beautiful with lotus seeds and petals, all over drowning-dark depths...how could they not fall in love with the boy their Jiang Fengmian bought home? How could the water not leap to follow his every gesture, whenever he went out upon it?

(Except that when he first felt it pressing at him with not just curiosity but love, he thought of Madam Yu’s clenched fist and Jiang Cheng’s yearning gaze, and he shoved it away as hard and fast as he could.)

Failing that, how could they not adore their eldest daughter, sweet and kind and welcoming to all, and protective enough to wield words like deadly blades? Once the land is cultivated to its own sentience, it doesn’t need to be a cultivator who bears its power...

(Except it does still need to be someone whose heart the doctors don’t worry over every time she does something more spiritually strenuous than meditate. And she cannot stay, she’ll explain one day, weeping, on a boat she’s rowed out to the middle of the lake herself. If it was just a matter of love - but they also need the alliance, or Lotus Pier, Yunmeng, YunmengJiang itself might be lost - )

So. Jiang Cheng wears all his deadliness on the surface and all his joy and welcome deep beneath, and YunmengJiang is the opposite. But at least he stays. Land moves on a geological time, and YunmengJiang more than most loves all its people, not just a select family. It can leap readily to the will of someone who stays and looks after them.

Or:

Agreement was universal that Nie Mingjue was a perfect bearer of QingheNie, mighty and stern and stubborn as the mountain granite. As tall, too, some would joke. It’s traditional for a Sect Leader to wear at all times a symbol of their land’s blessing - Lan Xichen’s headdresses always sparkle with a thin coating of ice; a lightly jeweled hip flask has been passed from Jiang to Jiang in which to hold lakewater. Upon taking title and land from his father, Nie Mingjue wears a circlet of rock on his brow, hard stone crafted with his own hands as though molding clay. 

Agreement was equally universal that Nie Huaisang was possibly the worst bearer of QingheNie in the clan’s entire history. Flighty where he should be staunch and stern, barely able (much less willing) to lift a blade, as flappable as one of his fans...as Sect Leader, he set a chunk of granite into the base of each one of those silly fans, but it was a public secret that the stone had been carved and smoothed by a stoneworker, not the Headshaker.

The mountains of Qinghe shook with grief on the day Nie Mingjue died, as they had for his father; grief and rage. The Unclean Realm itself shifted and nearly collapsed in several places - some of its famous defensibility came from being set into the mountainside itself, the back halls giving way to twisting tunnels running through the rock. Can you imagine how long one fighter with a saber can hold a single slim tunnel? Hidden ways, their secrets known only to the inhabitants; the deeper an enemy goes, the less likely they are to come out...

A single chip of granite launched across the room with fury can drive through a man’s eye and into his brain, killing him instantly, even with a fan trailing behind. Fortunately, it never needed to come to anything that gauche.

(It would have preferred Nie Mingjue, it really would, but even more than GusuLan, the last thing QingheNie has ever done is falter.)

So...

If the Burial Mounds had once been cultivated to a benevolent sentience and their power then corrupted, it’s been forgotten. But resentful and spiritual energy are two sides of the same coin, and the Burial Mounds yearn for company, for lives to call their own, just like any other land...but what sort of person has enough rage, vengeance, heartache, and loss to match them? Who could have enough strength of spirit to bear the touch of a land whose elemental power is death itself?

Trick question, we all know the answer to that. 

Good thing we got him, too, because defeating Wen Ruohan at the heart of the volcano he commands is a bitch and a half. (He wears a jagged crown of obsidian glass and Nie Mingjue will walk away with a burn on his face from the man’s touch.)

LanlingJin’s power is invested in light. Their Sect Leaders - or in Jin Ling’s case, Sect Heirs - carry a lantern at one hip, representative more than anything (one cannot cage light.) Or, you know, they just lowkey glow all the time - but that’s not convenient on a night hunt; you need something coverable. Jin Ling would have inherited it from his father, but instead it came directly from - you know, I so, so want to say his grandmother? But I don’t think Meng Yao, Jin Guangyao, would turn out quite the same were Jin Guangshan not exactly as Sect Leader as he in canon, and I’m loath to say Jin Sect is, like, particularly sexist or something to let both be true. So, grandfather it is, unfortunately. 

Jin Guangyao is jealous, but Jin Guangyao has too many secrets for bright LanlingJin. Maybe it would twist to suit him, with another couple generations dark and poisoned beneath the pretty lights, but not yet. Not even with how easily it’s gift can flow into illusions. Fortunately, LanlingJin is also the most gentle of the Great Sect Lands - perhaps weak, with how its family has been failing it, recently, in their stated intent. So Jin Ling can withstand its sudden flood even at the ripe age of two and a half.

It makes up for a little, for Jin Ling to have no memory of a time when he didn’t have the fierce, warm, bright affection of a coastal tower, busy city, and sun-drenched skies curled possessively around his soul. YunmengJiang bristles at the intrusion and mourns another loss (oh, YunmengJiang...at least it’s in accord with Jiang Cheng); and LanlingJin doesn’t like that its favorite so often strays so far. But family is important, both lands can reluctantly agree (in the manner of circling tigers, wary and territorial, thoughts not quite human.) They both want him loved.

...oh yeah, I was supposed to talk about Lan Sizhui, wasn’t I.

GusuLan would love that boy. It does love him, in its cold, discreet way. But it’s...complicated. It’s not Lan Sizhui’s fault. (Of the three, this is very much the AU least about Lan Sizhui.)

It’s the second battle of the Burial Mounds, as the second horde of corpses approaches. Wei Wuxian paces, mutters to Lan Wangji, "If I still had the land...but I don't know where it is. I can't hear it at all. I don't understand it."

This is not how Lan Wangji wanted to do this - though in fairness, he had no idea what would be a non-awkward way. He still doesn’t. Just a little louder than to be an answer to Wei Wuxian, he says, "Lan Sizhui."

"Yes, Huangang-jun?" The boy is at his elbow in an instant

Lan Wangji turns a little to include him in the conversation. He'd be gesturing if he was a man who made unnecessary motions. "Lan Yuan."

"Yes?" he repeats. 

Wei Wuxian stares at the both blankly.

"A-Yuan," Lan Wangji clarifies. He draws his guqin but he can't quite make eye contact with either of them.

Wei Wuxian gasps. He cups Lan Sizhui's very baffled cheeks (except something is a little familiar...) and peers at his face, turning it this way and that to check for familiar features. He peers deeper in a way that would be stunningly rude in anyone else (it’s still stunningly rude; they’ve all just come to expect that of Wei Wuxian) and likely impossible if there wasn't a shared affinity for what he seeks - but the bond is distant, so distant. Buried, smothered, bound.

(Lan Yuan, now Sizhui, has always felt like there was something he was missing, something he couldn't remember that was just out of reach. He thought it was the concept of parents or something like that, or maybe just a natural ennui that everyone had and didn’t speak of for propriety’s sake. He discarded it, because of course he had everything he could ever want.)

"A-Yuan..." Wei Wuxian looks at Lan Wangji, wondering, smoldering with love - and just the tiniest bit of reproach.

Lan Wangji looks away. It's a terrible thing to block someone off from their spiritual power, and it's a worse thing yet to block them off from the any power of a land they may bear. One is an insult to an individual, the other to the earth itself, almost as heretical as demonic cultivation. Su She, of course, has done both today, but only temporarily...and that’s a low bar to which to be compared.

But there was too much roiling in Wen Yuan when Lan Wangji found him, death and -

(You know what, I can’t decide: Did QishanWen’s smoldering lava pass to Wen Qing when no one closer was available, ceaseless fire matching ceaseless fire? Or were the Dafan Wens sufficiently distinct for long enough, far enough, that she was already taken? Is there DafanWen in its own right, high hills with the power of growth, from dainty flowers to ancient trees, twisting vines to healing herbs? 

...yes, I think so. 

But I also think they were close enough in blood, had spent enough time in the heart of the Nightless City, for some inheritance. So the reason no one stepped forward, at the Yiling Patriarch’s demand, to admit to killing Wen Ning was that...Wen Ning knew he was too weak, insufficiently greedy/ambitious for things to burn and build anew; he knew QishanWen was too quenched and dormant after its defeat to the Sunshot Alliance, and he was too far away and it was literally raining. He knew that to fight back would only bring pain down on more of their people. But even so, there was no one to step forward, because the man who dealt the killing blow burned screaming to ashes.

There were sparks left in the souls of each member of the blood left alive, but not enough to burst to flame. With that last death, QishanWen lay...dormant.)

(Until, maybe, almost all the rest of them were killed in the space of about 10 minutes. That must’ve sent a couple sparks flying.,,)

- so there was too much roiling in Wen Yuan when Lan Wangji found him. Verdant DafanWen was barely settled, still reeling from the loss of its favored daughter, the best healer in three generations. QishanWen sparked with new loss and ire, driving a fever. And the Burial Mounds, whose touch was death...

It is possible, for two lands to share a host. Boundaries are a human invention; the Earth is all one thing. Pride and territorialism are taught. And even if those have set in, they can certainly fight, in the infinite space of a human soul.

And the Burial Mounds loved that child. He wasn’t raging, he wasn’t mourning (except he was just starting to, now); but he wasn’t scared of them. Why would be be? The dead things that roamed it belonged to his Xian-gege; the living were his family; this land was his home.

But the Burial Mounds’ was the power of death itself, and A-Yuan wasn’t a teenager filled with enough determination to burn down the sun, he was three years old and scared. The extremely forbidden hasty ritual to (not cut it off, to late for that) hide it, bind it, bury it - this wasn't just for concealment. It saved his life.

Back in the present day, Lan Wangji says this with reluctantly raised eyes, and Wei Wuxian nods. Because oh boy does he know about that roiling spirit of death.

There's a horde of corpses approaching; they don't have time to be tender. 

"A-Yuan," says Wei Wuxian, swiping a thumb over his cheek as though to clear away a tear, and then dropping his hand. "Lan Sizhui, you trust us, right?"

"Of course?" Lan Sizhui glances uncertainly at Lan Wangji, head aching with memories about to surface.

Lan Wangji nods imperceptibly and starts to play - and it only takes a few strong chords, precisely chosen. It's always easier to break a wall than build it.

It's in QishanWen's nature to erupt but it's weak, dormant; it hasn't been home in over a decade and this boy has been trained to ice, not fire. It’s in DafanWen’s nature to flourish but it, too, is far from the earth of its body, and this is a place of death, not life. 

They are in the Burial Mounds, fifty steps from the blood pool that may as well be its heart. So the volcano stays dormant the grassy hills are quiet as ever, and the raging, too-long-stifled spirit of the Burial Mounds pours forth in whirling shadows that double Lan Sizhui's height. He gasps a scream at the weight of the sudden flood, at the tearing sensation in his soul (tearing open in a way that is right - last child of a dead clan remembering; lost child of a dead land coming home.) Several other people scream and point at the family meeting that had previously gone mostly unnoticed, in a corner of a Demon Suppression Cave. What is the Yiling Patriarch doing to that Lan disciple?!

The Burial Mounds are starting to turn on their only-just-realized child, whether they mean it or not, because their nature is death to all they touch. The Yiling Patriarch is standing forth, spreading his arms, and shouting, "Hey, jackass! Get back in here, we have more vengeance to wreak!"

The cultivation world watches (Lan Wangji catches a staggering Lan Sizhui) as with a sound like the rushing wind, shifting earth, screaming dead, it pours back into Wei Wuxian.

It’s just like before. It’s rage and pain and loss and vengeance and heartache. It’s Madam Yu’s hard eyes and the way Jiang Fengmian’s face shuttered when he heard the Core-Melting Hand was in Lotus Pier, before he even shoved them back in the boat; it’s Wen Ning’s broken form and Jin Zixuan’s, not fifty feet and ten months apart; it’s Wen Qing’s soft, I’m sorry, and thank you, and Jiang Yanli’s blood dripping down his arm. It’s the crack as the Tiger Seal shattered in his hand, or was that his own neck...

Wei Wuxian might be laughing, as he greets death like an old friend. But when he opens his eyes, it’s to a soft, “Wei Ying,” on the lips of his...Lan Zhan. Mourning whites sullied with the Burial Mounds’ (Wei Wuxian’s) dirt and blood. He’s holding up Lan Sizhui - A-Yuan, their son - and maybe Wei Wuxian is closer to a land spirit than human right now, or maybe he’s just hallucinating, but he swears he can see leaves uncurling behind the boy’s wide eyes. Wen Qing would be proud - if they get out of here alive, he’ll grow the most amazing things.

[jackdawyt]

Contaminated with the Blight. Known to thin the Veil, and forces anyone who dare wield it go mad. There’s a lot we’ve got to talk about regarding this most blighted material, however, in order for us to foreshadow what involvement red Lyrium may have in the future, we’ve got to excavate its original source – raw lyrium.  

Lyrium

Regular, non-tainted Lyrium is a mineral constantly mined for its properties, it has many purposes in Thedas today. The dwarves have built a trade empire mining and selling the material across the entire continent because of its usage. This trade is the main reason why Tevinter and the dwarven kingdoms have such a close relationship.  

Lyrium is essentially a mana booster, able to strengthen one’s magical power beyond what anyone might naturally muster. When mixed into liquid and ingested, Lyrium allows mages to enter the Fade consciously.  No wonder the mages of the Imperium have such a secure trade of the substance.  

While mages combine Lyrium with spells and rituals. Templars ingest the substance to enhance their abilities at resisting and dispelling magic, while the dwarves and non-magic wielders use Lyrium to create magical runes and enchant items.  

Even the Qunari were intrigued by its usage and began experimenting with the properties of Lyrium to bulk up their own mages called “Saarebas.”  

In the current Dragon Age, Lyrium has become a beneficial and essential mineral for the majority of Thedas.  

As Lyrium exists in both the physical world and The Fade, the Chantry believes Lyrium to be the “emerald waters of the Fade, the very substance of creation itself.” While others call Lyrium a conductor that "bridges the gap between the dreamer’s world and the waking world” (WoT V1).

Whatever the truth is... There’s a lot beyond the surface regarding this powerful substance that the common Thedosian may never know.  

The dwarves call “Lyrium” - “Isana” which translates to “singing stone” (WoT V1).

This is because Lyrium is; in fact, a living substance, it’s said to be the very blood of the world-shaping Titans.  

According to; their children, the dwarves, the legendary, ancient beings sculpted the world. Their earthquakes are apparently their method of reshaping Thedas to their accord.  

It's impossible to describe in words how truly vast a Titan is. The one I met is so large you can only glimpse parts of it. I had wandered inside its body for who knows how long without even realizing it. I've heard tales of dragons and giants on the surface, but descriptions of their size do not compare to the Titan's.

Its blood now flows through me, and its song fills the gaps in our history. I close my eyes and see glimpses of the world that was, before everything changed and the dwarven race broke in two. Something caused the Titans to fall, and the fate of my people fell with them. The Titan wants me to know. No, more than that. It wants me to understand. There is a loneliness to its song.

Codex entry: Titans: Shaper Valta's personal journal.

Whether the Titans, or “Pillars of the Earth” created Thedas, and have since been dwelling since the beginning of creation itself is still a rather ambiguous mystery. However, based on codex entries, we can confirm that the Titans existed before the Veil was created.  

In actuality, before the Veil’s creation, the Kingdom of the Elvhen hunted and declared war against the Titans, stating their death will be a mercy and will make the earth blossom with their passing.

"In this place we prepare to hunt the pillars of the earth. Their workers scurry, witless, soulless. This death will be a mercy. We will make the earth blossom with their passing."

Mythal, All-mother of the Elven Pantheon struck down a Titan, as the people praised her name.  

"Hail Mythal, adjudicator and savior! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!" 

With the defeat of a Titan, the Ancient Elves discovered Lyrium from its body. The elves continued to fight with the Titans, mining their bodies for raw Lyrium and "something else" which has been made unclear.  

"The runes say the Evanuris fought the Titans. They mined their bodies for lyrium and... something else. It's not clear."

While I’m trying not to theorise and speculate, Cole once said: "They made bodies from the earth. And the earth was afraid. It fought back. But they made it forget."

Perhaps the Ancient Elvhen made Lyrium bodies from the Titan’s blood. Crafting strong, resilient vessels for the Evanuris and their people to inhabit. Continuing their savage hunt against the Titans.  

Thus, explaining the fall and disconnect of the Titans from their children, the dwarves. Justifying why the dwarven kingdom have grown disattached to their creators throughout the ages, and only now have begun to re-establish that connection once more.  

In any regard, the Titans were not completely silenced. They slumbered for years, and somewhere down the line, Red Lyrium came into existence. Perhaps caused by the Evanuris war, or perhaps self-inflicted by the Titans themselves, we don’t know. Red Lyrium’s origin is still a huge enigma... However, we do know that the spread of Red Lyrium has merely just begun.  

The red corrupted substance is a perverted form of raw Lyrium. Just like its predecessor, Red Lyrium is alive, it has a lifespring, and it grows and multiplies across Thedas. It too ties power between the waking world and the Fade.

To answer your question, my lord: yes, I have indeed heard of this "red lyrium" of which you speak. A single piece of it surfaced in the eastern city of Kirkwall, and its influence alone was nearly enough to cause the city's destruction. As near as we can determine, it is regular lyrium that has been somehow corrupted. Those who have touched red lyrium—or even come near it—report that it "sings" to them, like whispers in the mind that slowly drive them mad.

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

As discovered by Bianca Davri, Red Lyrium carries the blight, explaining its twisted form.  

Unlike regular lyrium which requires you to digest it in order for it to impact you. Red Lyrium corrupts everything it touches, being in close proximity to it will greatly affect you.  

Far more disturbing is the fact that lyrium could be corrupted at all. Treat any red lyrium you encounter as if it were poison. Do not go near it, do not attempt to destroy it... and most importantly, do not attempt to use it.

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

The substance is most unique, it can thin the Veil, allowing spirits and demons to interact with the real world. Prolonged exposure will change not only your mental outlook but your physical appearance too.  

It tends to leave people or animals in a mad-like state. They become paranoid, and see no reasoning for morality, as Bartrand sabotages his own brother Varric. Red Lyrium tends to consume the mind and take over. Much like the reasoning for the Red Templars in Inquisition, Red Lyrium is very deadly, and grows off of anything living.

We do not know, however, what might stem from extended contact with red lyrium. Madness, surely, but would there be a physical corruption as well? What would happen if a mage or a templar used red lyrium as they use regular lyrium?

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

Speaking more specifically on Red Lyrium’s growth - its corruption throughout the land has merely begun - and attempting to remove the mineral is likely a fruitless effort, as it will have already introduced itself into the food chain, which begets more corruption: as Red Lyrium effects all it touches, insects digest blighted soil, animals then digest the blighted insects, this will have a knock-on effect, more animals, plants and trees will become tainted by merely following their survival instincts until eventually the people of Thedas are infected by their own harvest.  

While a lot of the growth of Red Lyrium has been greatly caused by the hands of many Thedosian’s, a great deal of its development into the eco system is simply inevitable. It's merely a matter of days until a Ferelden Farmer has spoiled crops, an Orlesian Noble eats an infected nug, and a predator hunting its prey soon becomes blighted.  

And that’s not all that lingers for the future, Red Lyrium has plenty of involvement in many scenarios that awaits Thedas.  

The Titan’s connection

When Valta connected with a Titan, she felt pure, wasn’t afraid anymore, and could somehow survive without needing food or water, as if the Titan’s essence was her sole sustenance. The Titan connected with one of their children stopped the tremors throughout the land.

Valta established a longing connection with the dwarves supposed creators, as adult and child rekindled once more, Valta’s consciousness intertwined with the knowledge of the Titans. Vital information that would shake up the entirety of the dwarven kingdom’s foundation.  

With Valta’s connection, surely the Titan’s seek to find the rest of their children, becoming one once more.  

Red Lyrium Idol

The Red Lyrium Idol is still a mystery. This McGuffin was brought back in Tevinter Nights, instead of being destroyed when Meredith created her sword Certainty, it stayed within her statue-like corpse, preserved for a fair while.  

it’s been described as: “a couple hugging, too thin to be dwarves”, or “a god mourning their sacrifice.” However, disregarding what it supposedly looks like, this idol belongs to Solas. It’s his, and he wants it back, he has a purpose for it.  

Its current whereabouts have been set up for interpretation, we can assume the Idol is either with a noble’s son heading to war torn Tevinter, or Solas has indeed collected his long-lost possession after some time. Again, we can only assume at this point where it may be, and why Solas requires it.  

Red Lyrium Sarcophagus

In Dragon Age: Blue Wraith, the most recently released comic book roster, the comic cast uncover a Lyrium Sarcophagus, originally utilised for Fenris’s transformation into a “Blue Wraith”. The device infuses the occupant with Lyrium markings that grant the host with immense power like the ability to go through walls, and tear an enemy's heart out of their chest.  

Towards the end of Blue Wraith, we understand that the Venatori have this device and intend on willingly putting one of Fenris’s trusted friends through the device using Red Lyrium to make him a most formidable, unstoppable warrior.  

If successful, perhaps this practice may become common in Tevinter for the remaining Venatori and their elven slaves.

New clusters of Lyrium  

Discovered briefly in Tevinter Nights, The Horror Of Hormak, other colours and variations of Lyrium seemingly exist. A massive Lyrium crystal glowing yellow and green hung suspended deep within a lost dwarven thaig.  

Above it, a massive lyrium crystal hung suspended. It glowed with a sickly light, tinged with yellow and green. Streamers of energy flowed from it into the pool, sending it bubbling wherever it touched. (Horror Of Hormak, pg. 100).  

With more variations of Lyrium deep underground, perhaps we’ll begin to see different properties of this mineral, who knows, perhaps this could lead to other Titans waking up across Thedas.

Origin Of The Blight

And of course, we need to comprehend how the blight began. I attempting at looking at this plot thread, without going to deep into theory, but I do believe it has something to do with the Titan’s war between the Evanuris, because suddenly Red Lyrium pops into the picture and the Elven Pantheon are becoming mad with armour of the Void, turning against each other.  

Perhaps a Blighted Titan is the original source of the blight, as it reaches out for revenge against the Evanuris, attempting to establish a connection with their children once more, destroying everything else in its path...

So many mysteries, and so much to go on for the future of Dragon Age!  That is it for my first entry in this Road To Dragon Age 4 series, let me know what you thought of it, and tell me your potential theories for the future Dragon Age narrative.  

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #345

“this is the year where hope fails you  /  the test subjects run the experiment  /  and the bastards you know, is the hero you hate”

Do you have any scars from burns? No. Have you ever built a snowman? Yes. Growing up, Dad would always help my sisters and I make them. Good memories. How about a sand castle? Yeah, but not any impressive ones at all. Just the ones where you fill a pail with sand and flip it over. Have you ever used crutches? Tried when I tore a ligament in my foot, but the pair we had were too tall for me to use them comfortably at all, so I never really "used" them. Have you ever been in a tree house? No. Would you ever move to China? No. Did you ever go to daycare as a kid? I went to one for literally a day because Mom was disgusted with how I was treated. I accidentally wandered into the wrong room or something and one of the guardians slapped my hand when she scolded me, and I think I sobbed the rest of the day, but partially because I had AWFUL separation anxiety from my mom. Afterwards, Mom just had people she knew babysit my sisters and me. Who’s one of the most talented people you know? What are they talented at? As for people who are still in my life/I still consider to "know," I'm unsure, but only because there are so many talented people in my life. One of my older sisters is a fantastic cake decorator and artist in general, and my little sister is truly skilled with working with children; she's a kid magnet. Sara is really good at animation, and I wish she'd do it more! Do you usually pay with cash, debit card, or credit card? Cash. I don't have a credit or debit card. Are you the type of person who can make friends with just about anyone? Yeah, but I have my limits. I'm very open-minded and can befriend people with a wide range of beliefs and personalities, but I know where to draw the line. There comes a point where giving your friendship to someone is like passively supporting their ways, and I don't want to do that if those are overwhelmingly negative and/or hateful. Have you ever experienced a medical emergency? Well yeah, I overdosed on cold medicine. I was surprisingly okay, but I assume it's because I was taken to the hospital fast enough for fluids? Idk. What was the last thing you borrowed from someone? Ummm no clue. Are you muscular? Uh, no. When you go to a restaurant, do you prefer to sit at a booth or a table? Booth. What’s something you think everyone should do/experience at least once in their life? Love. Has your car ever been broken into? I don't have a car, but neither of my parents' has been. Have you ever recorded yourself doing a cover of a song? No. Do you watch television shows more in the dark or the day time? I just don't watch TV. Are there any movies out there that basically make you want to puke? None that I've seen, no. But I won't watch The Human Centipede for this exact reason, as I KNOW it would make me hurl. Any secrets you’d never tell anyone? No matter how close they are to you? Yes. Do you consider yourself a promiscuous person? Not even slightly. Do you know anyone who has AIDS? What about yourself? I don't know anyone with it, no, and I don't have it either. Has anyone ever mistaken you to be a member of the opposite sex? No. What’s your favorite hair color on the opposite sex that you love? I like colored hair, but if we're talking natural colors, then black. Have you ever had a child before? If so, what’s his/her name? Nope, never gonna have one. Which baby animal is your favorite? Meerkats for sure. I also love kittens. Do you like jam on your toast and biscuits? Yeah. Are there any plants in your home? No. What food does honey go best with? *shrug* Have you ever carved a pumpkin? Yeah. Have you ever reread a book? I read Because of Winn-Dixie twice, and I've read Meerkat Manor: Flower of the Kalahari countless times, although after the first read, I skipped over Clutton-Brock's massive tangents that had nothing to do with meerkats. They really took away from the book, imo. Would you ever like to own a chandelier? Sure, like above the dinner table. It's not a big deal for me, though. What scent is the last body wash you used? Oh my god, it's this cinnamon bun scent that I got for I think my b-day, and I LOVE it. It's going to suck when it's gone. Do you have any religious symbols in your home? Probably somewhere, I just don't pay attention. What religion do you identify with, if any? None. Do you enjoy flavored coffee? If so, which flavor is your favorite? I don't like coffee at all. Do you know someone who has asthma? Yeah, my mom. What is the most controversial thing you’ve done? Come out as bi, I guess. Other than interviews, do you ever “dress to impress?" No. Are you currently listening to music? Yeah: "The Man Who Made a Monster" by Dance With the Dead. When was the last time you got really nervous? I should NOT be blanking on this, but I sure am. I don't think I've been REALLY nervous in a while, but certainly nervous like... always. What was the first thing you ate today? I had a bagel. Have you ever had one of those elementary-school boy/girlfriends? No; I didn't have my first boyfriend 'til the 7th grade. Name something random in your car: I don't have my own car. What do you want to tell someone who has died (and who is it, if anything)? I wish I could tell Steve Irwin thank you and that he truly did change the world. I think a lot about just how unspeakably proud he would be of his children and how madly in love he'd be with Bindi's newborn. That family is the definition of wholesome, and I desperately wish Steve was still around. Have you ever stolen from a friend or family member? Wow, no. Would/did you cheat on someone for revenge? Or if they wouldn’t find out? No, that's incredibly childish. If you got pregnant right now, would you keep the baby? The only way I could get pregnant right now was if I was, God fucking forbid, raped. I don't think I'd be able to keep it; it would scar me for life, but at the same time, even though I'm pro-choice, I don't know if I could go through with an abortion without feeling like shit and forever thinking "well you could've just given it up for adoption." I don't like thinking about this topic. Any history with eating disorders (or tendencies)? No, thankfully. I've had bulimic thoughts before, but I've never acted on them. Does your family have a secret? No. If single, would you knowingly be who someone cheats on someone else with? Nooope. Guilt would eat me alive. Have you ever contemplated physically hurting yourself or another? I have hurt myself, but never other people. Choose one living person you’d like to meet. I won't have lived a full life w/o meeting Mark at least once laksdj;flakwjer. Who is someone you know would take a bullet for you? My mom would without a millisecond's hesitation. I'm sure Dad would, too. The next time you are on an airplane, where will you be traveling to? Most likely Illinois to visit Sara again. Where is your dad from? Ohio. Aside from your own, whose house did you last set foot into? My older sister's. What is something that makes you very squeamish? Vomit is #1. Do you even use an alarm clock, or do you just use your phone? I use my phone. Have you ever moved to a different state? No. Lived in NC my whole life. Can you do long division in your head? I can't do math in my head period. Do you have a wide imagination? Oh yes. Would you mind living on a farm? I wouldn't want to. Farms take way too much maintenance. Do you enjoy watching horror films? Oh yeah. Have you ever been to Niagara Falls? No, but I'd love to. Who are you in love with? Nobody. When is the last time you took a picture? I took a picture of Venus like a week ago when I had her out of her terrarium and she was just coiled between my arm and the laptop, totally chillin' out. I was IN a picture just a couple days ago, because my eldest sister came over to visit with her husband. It was great. Do you wash your own car or make the car wash do it? I don't have a car. Are you a fan of parties? Not big ones, no. I'd enjoy chilling out with a few people I'm friends with/know, just chatting and hanging out. Next trip you’re going to take? I don't know. My sister Misty's wedding is coming up soon, but we doubt we'll be able to go because of 1.) Mom's car would never make the drive, and 2.) Covid, and Mom's immunocompromised. It sucks, but she's being understanding about it. Were you in honor roll in school? Yeah. If you could know one thing about the future, what would it be? If I'll ever be happy with my life. What’s your favorite lunch meat? Ham. Do you drink your soda from a straw? I don't like to, no, because I drink faster via a straw, and I like to drag my soda out throughout the day so I don't go through more than I should. Do you like hot sauce? Yesssssss. Do you like Ellen Degeneres? Sure, she seems like a great person. Who do you think is the cutest celebrity? UMMMMMM like have you ever seen Mark Fischbach laugh?????? Did you ever play softball? For quite a long time as a kid, yeah. Would you like to live to be 110 years old? No, that sounds like torture. I don't want to live to where I'm essentially a walking (if even) corpse. No energy, no strength... no thanks. Do you like getting your picture taken? NO. Ever seen a tornado? Thank fuck no. When you were little, did you do gymnastics? No. Do you know anyone who is pregnant? I know a number of people who are. Two are due very soon. Do you like being the X or the O when you play tic-tac-toe? I like being the X. Have you ever tried crowd surfing? No. Do you like the movie Bambi? If so, who is your favorite on there? I've actually somehow never seen it, though I would like to. Do you like onion rings? No. Are you more afraid of going to the doctor or dentist? I'm not really afraid of either, but I dislike going to the doctor more. Have you ever been to an animal shelter? Yeah. Have you ever bought yourself or someone else lingerie? No. Have you ever had a serious issue involving your eyes? Nothing more than needing glasses. When you were a teenager, did your parents set rules about dating? Not really, besides the obvious age gap stuff. I was allowed to follow my heart with who I was interested in, really. Have you ever lived with a person who you tried to avoid at all costs? There were times like this with Dad when my parents were still together and he was in a bad mood, especially if he was drinking. Have you ever committed a crime that directly harmed another person? No. What is your worst childhood memory? There was this very weird three day period where I could've sworn up and down I was constantly on the verge of puking. On the third night, Mom finally took me to the hospital, but they couldn't find anything wrong. Oddly enough, I felt better the next morning... The whole situation was fucking awful for someone who was and still is terrified of vomiting. Do you remember where you first drove to after getting your license? I don't have my license. What did you get into trouble for the most when you were a kid? Being on the computer too much. What is your favourite game show to watch? Family Feud with Steve Harvey. When’s the last time had to cover a coworker’s shift? Never. Is there a word you have an emotional connection to? "Petrichor." How about a sound? Any emotional connection to a sound? LOTS of songs. Where is your favourite place to get fries? Bojangle's. Their seasoning is *chef's kiss* Do you always have a stock of alcohol in your house? No. Have you ever fainted? Yes. Do you get out of bed on the left side or right side? Left. Do you fall asleep with your mouth open or closed? It embarrasses me for some reason, but usually open, because I have a hard time breathing through my nose when I lie down for some reason? I don't take allergy medicine though when I'm really supposed to, so that might explain it... Is there a book you keep telling yourself you’ll read but still haven’t? I have Margaret Atwood's The Testaments that I want to read, but Wings of Fire has taken precedent, so I really don't know if I'll get to it. It would also be nice to catch up with Erin Hunter's Warriors, but that I know I won't do. Did your family ever own a vacation home? No. Have you ever opened a wine bottle? Nope. Have you been inside of a police station? No. What would you never change about yourself? I mean, there's a number of things. I would never allow myself to lose my empathy and compassion for others, for one. I'll never grow a head too big for my body. Do you pretty much need a car to get around where you live? Yeah. Public transport isn't a big thing here, especially outside the cities, and living in the South, places are pretty spread out/not within reasonable walking distance. Have you been to Australia? No, and I'm honestly too scared to go, even though I think it would be extremely cool. All the venomous animals just frighten me, and I find huntsman spiders to be TERRIFYING, regardless of how harmless they are. Do you mind drinking room-temperature water? UGH, I absolutely do mind. I HAVE to drink cold water. If it's even slightly on the warm side, it makes me want to gag.

[fatehbaz]

Man-eating plants in early horror fiction and public consciousness - Part 2 - Colonialism and “Victorian eco-Gothic”

Rescuing a victim from a carnivorous plant. An illustration from a reprinting of The Flowering of the Strange Orchid: A Tale of an Orchid Enthusiast by H.G. Wells, originally published 1894.

An excerpt:

In 1889, Londoners gathered excitedly for a unique and distinctly unpleasant experience: the rare specimen of amorphophallus titanum which the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew had acquired almost a decade earlier had finally bloomed, its flower releasing an odour akin to a rotting corpse. This corpse flower, as it is colloquially known, was an import from Sumatra, one more addition to the Kew’s sprawling, global collection of plants made possible thanks to Britain’s far-flung colonial concerns; consequently, the plant’s popular draw stemmed from its exoticism as well as the rarity of the bloom and the peculiarity of its odour. The nauseating stink is meant to attract carrion insects which the plant could then consume, a lure that simulates death in order to bring about death to maintain the plant’s life, a predatory irony Victorians associated, thanks to travelogues and pulp fiction, with the equatorial rain forests as the supposed sites of perpetual, vicious Darwinian competition. Teeming with seeming contradictions—life and death, beauty and revulsion, flowery fragility and carnivorous intent—it was for the Victorians an uncanny plant, a Gothic structure made not of stone or brick but of petals and stems, which Nature had painted in garish hues of green, red, and purple in seeming sharp contrast to its funerary scent and function.

We do not tend to associate the uncanny, or other concepts related to the Gothic, with plant life. If a landscape is Gothic is it usually because of an absence of vegetable vitality, the arthritic branches of leaf-shorn trees and the sickly scrub and stones of the moors. But the nascent discipline of the EcoGothic asks us to call into question our assumptions about where the uncanny can be located by demonstrating how the anthropocentric urge to distinguish ourselves from our environment also leads to our alienation from, and therefore monstrous alterity of, the natural world; an ecophobia that arises from the simultaneous awareness of how absolutely our survival depends on an environment we have continuously abused and consequently fear escaping our control and even seeking its revenge. Building off recent, foundational texts of the EcoGothic,1 Dawn Keetley and Angela Tenga have gathered together another collection of essays—Plant Horror, released 2016—that details the monstrous potential of vegetable life. Keetly sums up the monstrosity of plants for us:

(1) Plants embody an absolute alterity; (2) Plants lurk in our blindspot; (3) Plants menace with their wild, purposeless growth; (4) The human harbors an uncanny constitutive vegetal; (5) Plants will get their revenge; and (6) Plant horror marks an absolute rupture of the known. (v)

Although Plant Horror’s contributors bypass the 19th century, I see perilous plants and other botanical monsters proliferating (yes, I’ll say it: like weeds) in the popular fiction of the fin-de-siècle. And while Gothic monsters can express a multitude of alienations, the particular anxieties evoked by botanical monstrosities at this time were tied to imperialism, and fears of reverse colonization.

Like the corpse flower, perilous plants were closely associated with the tropics in the Victorian imagination. This was a deliberate manufacture: in 1874, the American Edmund Spencer (not to be confused with his more famous, earlier English namesake) presented as fact a fictional explorer’s encounter with an African tribe that offered human sacrifices to a man-eating tree. Several other writers followed suit, fabricating accounts of carnivorous plants capable and willing to devour humans across Africa, Central and South America, and the then-Dutch East Indies. Such plants therefore became part of the imperialist mythos about the bizarre and dangerous recesses of the so-called primitive parts of the world, there to test the mettle of white explorers.

Pulp fiction writers eagerly took up the theme, abandoning the patina of truth. Prolific periodical writer Fred M. White provides an exemplary case in “The Purple Terror” (in the September 1899 issue of The Strand). Set in Cuba, the story revolves around a man-eating tree that uses purple vines like tentacles to ensnare the unsuspecting as its next meal. Although White is not uncritical of the colonial project—his American protagonists demonstrate their greed in desiring the plant’s blooms, and arrogance in considering themselves masters over a land they barely understand—most of his venom is reserved for indigenous targets: the Cuban natives who lead the erstwhile heroes into peril are just as treacherous as the environment, with murder hiding under the innocuous façade of both the plants and people of the colonized territory.

The Gothic teaches us that anything repressed will resurface again, often in violent ways, and so it was for imperialism. An entire genre of imperial gothic literature evolved to deal with the perils of foreign elements invading English bodies and English lands, as the colonizers had themselves inflicted on distant countries. Either out of provocation or opportunism, the once safely remote monsters of the colonized world retrace the explorers’ steps back to the metropole. Such monsters range from Kipling’s heathen curses to Haggard’s sorcerous queens, but also includes potential ecological threats such as H. G. Wells’s “The Empire of the Ants” (1905), in which organized, aggressive ants establish themselves as potential rivals to Britain’s global dominion. The same year, Wells released another, lesser known short story—“The Flowering of the Strange Orchid”—pairing the entomological threat with a botanical one. An orchid collector buys the last samples taken by an explorer who perished in the swamps of South-East Asia, and one in particular attracts the collector’s fascinating (and his housekeeper’s scorn). In the end, the housekeeper barely manages to save our protagonist when the orchid releases a soporific scent and begins to leech his blood with tentacle-like roots. Implicit is a critique of the imperial urge to collect and turn into curiosities flora (to say nothing of animals, people, or artefacts) from the world over—much as was done with the corpse flower—without respect for the inherent dangers to both the life so abused and those exposed to it.

This latter set of fiction also reflected contemporary fears—both genuine and overblown—about the effects of invasive species, like insects and plants, on local English ecology. There are few examples of invasion literature more famous than Wells’s 1895 The War of the Worlds, but in our awe at the Martian machinery of death—their tripods and heat rays—we often forget that their tools of invasion are as much biological as technological. The red weed, the pernicious Martian plant evocative of other vegetative invaders like the kudzu vine, is another botanical monster, one that soon overruns the English countryside, overcoming local flora as easily as the sentient Martians do humanity (though ultimately doomed by the same weakness to terrestrial bacteria). Looking past the anthropocentric bias of the narrator, we realize that humanity is but one of myriad earthly species being replaced by the Martian’s ecological invasion.

But the preeminent Gothic text of the fin-de-siècle is also one that articulates a botanical monster: Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), a book often read as an example of reverse colonization. There are many ways in which the EcoGothic can inform a reading of Dracula. The count’s proximity to animals, both in his various transmutations (into wolves and bats) and by Harker’s characterization of the vampire as a “lizard” (66) has oft been commented on. The count’s transformations, however, are not only animal but atmospheric: he can turn into mist or motes of dust, and summon storms to cloak his passage. But I wish to attend to the way Dracula manifests as vegetable. This may seem like an odd way to describe a vampire noted for speed, strength, and cunning—yet this same creature must, during the day, sleep in a coffin filled with earth from his native Transylvania. He must pot himself every day, in other words, for only buried in soil of particular characteristics can he maintain his strength. And in this state, as the novel’s protagonists discover and rely upon, he is utterly passive and defenseless, vegetating in the pejorative sense of the word, fixed—indeed rooted—in his native soil.

Dracula is his own botanist, insofar as he carefully transplants himself from his own clime to England, having first studied the language and culture to acclimatize himself, but always carrying his native soil with him in order to be at home even in a foreign land. He does not bring the female Transylvanian vampires with him on this journey, but instead seeks to hybridize himself with local English women by feeding on their blood and having them drink of his in turn, a vampiric graft that creates a British vampire crossbreed in the form of Lucy. This New Vampire built off the English New Woman know—thanks to the knowledge of a native Londoner—exactly how to lure to herself (like a Venus fly-trap) the lower-class children who will not be missed. Like the corpse flower, the vampire straddles the line between life and death, simulating the former in order to spread the latter. It is with a stake—a weapon drawn from a horticultural repertoire—that the novels heroes plant Lucy back into her own native ground. The use of the stake is only partially ironic: stakes usually support plants, and Van Helsing’s crew wield them destructively—yet stakes also fix plants in place, and what is most alarming about Dracula as a botanical monster is his uncanny mobility.

-

Excerpted from:

Zoe Chadwick. “Perilous plants, botanical monsters, and (reverse) imperialism in fin-de-siecle literature.” In The Victorianist: BAVS Postgraduates. October 2017.

Part 1: http://fatehbaz.tumblr.com/post/182100690519/man-eating-plants-in-early-horror-fiction-and

[1nkweaver]

PICK N OPAL!!! 1- What happens when your character doesn't get what they want? 2- How well can this character resist their emotions and impulses? 3- If the character were to come face to face with their darkest fears in a nightmare, what would they see? 4-Do they prefer sweet, salty, sour, meaty, spicy, or neutral tastes? 5- whats their feelings on the groups their with lately?

1- What happens when your character doesn't get what they want?

Opal: It really depends on what it is tbh. Opal will either let it go immediately, or he’ll keep pushing subtly, or he’ll have a “do it yourself” attitude to it. If it’s some kind of divine plan thing, he’s -going- to make it happen, that’s the long and short of it.

Pick: He probably just whines really XD but if he’s not getting what he wants because his opinion or thought process is like being put down then he’ll get aggressive. He really buts heads with people on moral issues and developing plans because I think he thinks that you should always debate every possibility.

2- How well can this character resist their emotions and impulses?

Opal is stoic as fuuuuuck man...it’s hard to really feel like he -has- impulses, but I definitely want him to almost be like -TOO- in control of his emotions. Yknow, like seeing your church get destroyed with your people inside it and seemingly not reacting super duper hard, just kinda...staring at it. (Yeah Baughn, that’s basically what he did when that happened do you feel bad?)

Pick is very emotional on the other hand. He tries so desperately to think about what would Anders do because he always felt Anders was smart, but Anders almost always acted on his feelings, and he instilled that in Pick a bit. Pick thinks first with his gut, then with his heart, and last with his brain- but he uses all three. Goblin nature in my mind is to be very id driven, so he very often just -goes- with his instincts and feelings, he doesn’t question them bc he feels that’s the truest part of himself.

3- If the character were to come face to face with their darkest fears in a nightmare, what would they see?

Opal dreams of building something, and while those things have been destroyed before and he’s had to start over, there has always been a sense of rebuilding. Opal’s worst nightmare would be that sense of total defeat- he’s dying, his friends are dying around him, and everything he built is being destroyed in one fell swoop. It’s kind of dramatic but Opal doesn’t really think about things on a personal level, his worst nightmare is being there for the end of the world.

Pick’s nightmare is a lot more real and personal. He’d be back in a place he was before. A place with music, and laughter, and a lot of voices...and he’s looking at it while either standing over a corpse, or looking out from between bars.

4-Do they prefer sweet, salty, sour, meaty, spicy, or neutral tastes?

Opal definitely has a sweet tooth- I remember in waterdeep he had the equivalent of fish and chips and he found it..interesting but strange. I must imagine he loves things like custard and candied apples and the like, probably caramel too, things of that nature would really make him feel happy.

Pick eats a lot of things so he has a really expanded palette, I mean the guy will eat garbage. I think it’s partially goblin instinct to like salty and meaty things, like gamey raw meat and stuff like that. But I also personally think that now, especially with the gourmand feat, that he has a real big love for spicy. Not necessarily spicy hot (though he’d love that) but spicy flavorful, like with indian food and the like. Just really powerful flavors.

5- whats their feelings on the groups their with lately?

The Opal of Waterdeep has developed very slowly, I last left off with a month long timeskip while we rebuilt trollskull manor. He thinks that he can help them, but he needs their help too, and he’s been learning their secrets and keeping his close. I remember I wrote out a whole speech for Opal because he believes he got one of the characters backstories figured out, and meant to confront them about it. 

Opal of Avisten is a little bit different- he’s older, wiser, but more grizzled and lives in a more dangerous uncivilized world. It was his plan to actually assemble the party itself, he gathered these people and chose them individually for a reason. They are his people, they are his flock. I hate to use the religious allegory but Opal sees himself as the “jesus” figure and all of the rest of the party are his “apostles”. Maybe they’ll listen to him, maybe they’ll betray him. But they’re all integral to each other and they all have something that Opal needs to do for them, and they will do something in return for Opal. Deep down they are good people, flawed people, but they need each other. As Ida would say they are twisted.

Picks ideas on the party are...complicated, a lot now, like a lot. Let’s break it down:

Jin- The first person he met, didn’t think much of him at all. A very typical roguish type- talks a lot, not a lot of wit, good with his fingers, a himbo. They’re fast “friends” but Pick really wants a rivalry. Jin is proving to be more than what he appeared, smart, multifaceted. Pick still thinks he’s “better” but he thinks Jin is also necessary. The first person Pick would call a friend. Jins sexual advances make Pick confused and uncomfortable. Pick wishes that Jin would be more real- he saw Jin having his nightmare and associates strongly with him. Pick wants to be able to “hash it out like dudes” but Pick is not one for heavy drinking or drugs or sex. He’s not about to bond and tell sad backstory over getting drunk, which he thinks is the main way that it would come out of Jin. He kinda also wants to see Jin angry, because he thinks that Jin is closing that off too. He thinks Jin is being friendly but he isn’t being “real” with him, which is ironic because Jin is very “down to earth, says it like it is” kind of dude...but he’s not -really- doing it. He’s not being -really real- with Pick right now, which is fine, it’s not the time for it. But can they just have a real conversation? Please? 

Kai- Technically the second person that Pick met after Jin. Strange, youthful nature, naive, good heart. The kind of person you call kid and ruffle up his hair. A tiefling- weird, foreign, strange. The thing Pick honestly doesn’t understand at this point is why the fuck does everyone baby this kid. Yeah he gets scared but that’s a good thing- and hello don’t know if you realized it but Kai is stronger than most of you. Where Pick sees others trying to protect Kai’s innocence, Pick sees someone that needs to be seriously trained if he’s staying in this group. Stop babying him and show him how to properly use his sword. Don’t keep him away from things that give him fear, show him how to kill his fears. Pick doesn’t consider Kai a friend, but he considers Kai the “goodest” person of the group. Pick sees Kai as someone who by every right should turn to evil and is choosing to do good, instead of someone who was just born good and did what was expected of him.

Aspasia- Strange, strange woman. Strong, obviously- but out of place. Why is she here? Why is she connecting with these people. There is a mind behind that muscle that is being ignored- and god Aspasia is literally always thinking about other things. Pick initially thought Callie and Aspasia were lovers- he’s still not really sure? But apparently Sia also is loosy goosy with Jin, he doesn’t understand their friendship at all. Pick and Aspasia haven’t spoken but he feels an unspoken energy between them. Their desire to fight, and OOC I know if they talked their goals would align more strongly than anyone else’s in the group so far. Pick thinks Aspasia needs to speak the fuck up with her words more than her muscles as of late because she’s not talking.

Ida- The absolute largest conflict of interest all in one person. Ida both reflects things that Pick severely, severely hates in this world, while at the same time being the one that most accurately reflects Anders as a person, the person Pick respects the most. This has led to a very very difficult understanding of Ida in Pick’s eyes. Pick hates Ida, he hates that she’s so nice, self sacrificing, puts herself down, acts like the mom, and he hates clerics. He doesnt’ think she deserves to be lied to however. He may hate a lot of the things that Ida represents, but not a single person in the party has Picks -respect- besides her. Pick was going up that hill, and everyone could have yelled at him to turn back and he would not have, the only person that could (and did) convince him in that moment was Ida. Pick will argue with any member of this party but in the end he will do what -Ida- says to do. That’s what she deserves. Not his kindness, not his love or admiration or friendship, but his respect. He’s respecting her because she right now is the closest thing to Anders. And damn if Pick hates that.

Callie- Quiet, curious, Callie. Pick thought her and Aspasia were lovers, he’s still not really sure, but their inseparable nature reminds him of him and Anders- he would never get in between them. Except...for the fact that for whatever reason he fancies Callie. It might be just because she’s someone he can literally talk eye to eye with, but there’s more than that. He appreciates that she doesn’t have to talk a lot, he finds her care for animals endearing even if he’s afraid of horses, and her abilities in combat are varied. Her use of magic frightens him, but she’s hard to read. He does straight up find Callie cute, attractive. In a way that he hopes isn’t creepy he likes...holding her hand and stuff? He thinks she’s very soft, he sees a kind of...goblin nature inside of her? Kinda like a little flame of passion that she keeps really really well hidden- but her understanding of nature, her “going off alone” ness..very goblin like and that draws him to her, and then she doesn’t have a goblins (admitedly, freakish) outward appearance. He likes her a lot, he’s sad that she seems to pull away so often, he blames himself..? Wants to find a way to get through to her. Now that Callie has a wolf Picks childhood dream of being an Outrider was reawakened.

Siril: Big man. Pick does not understand why the hell Siril is here at all. He is by far probably the most out of place person in the group in Picks first impressions, but he’s sticking around. He has been wanting to have an actual just good old getting to know you talk one on one with Siril since the very beginning just based on the fact that he’s interesting! Pick has never seen a Firbolg before, they’re so -different- as people and Pick is totally okay with that! He wants to talk about it! He thought maybe on that watch that they had together last game they’d finally talk but it seems that they most likely spent it in silence. Seeing Siril go from really aggressive to Jin to almost warming up to him, as well as warming up to Sia...hurt Pick a little. Not necessarily as jealousy, but perhaps something similar. Pick thought they had a lot in common, they were the new guys to the group and in Picks opinion he thought they were really the “freaks”. They’re the weird races, and he just feels like he’s...missed out on a shot. He thinks Siril doesn’t really find him interesting and he really can’t place a finger on it but ever since he came to the party Pick wants to impress Siril. That’s why he gave him space when it was clear he was annoyed, that’s why he went along and did as much work on the murder case as he could, it’s why he -went- with Siril to see the widow and gave her all his gold. It’s why when Pick was asked by Siril if he was a good person Pick gave him a truthful answer of “you are useful” because truth is what Pick gives to people that he feels are deserving of a harsh answer. He thought they’d talk more since then and they really haven’t, and Pick wonders if all that time trying to impress Siril was for naught, he really doesn’t have the emotional maturity to figure out why he’s feeling what he’s feeling, but he just has those base feelings. Does he “like” Siril, is he “attracted?” He doesn’t know how to process that, but he had an instinctual desire to impress him, to be seen as useful or interesting to him, and seeing him bond with other people that Pick wasn’t expecting him to (ie, not me, the other “freak”) he feels...hurt by it.

[analogscum]

SCUM IN THE AISLES #4 (The House That Jack Built: Unrated Director’s Cut)

Sometimes, in order to seek out the weirdest discarded slices of celluloid trash that cinema has to offer, one must leave the confines of their crappy apartment, and go to an actual movie theater. This is a column recounting my excursions into the b-movie wilds. This is Scum in the Aisles!

PART 1: ANTICIPATION

“You’ve all bought tickets for a Lars von Trier film, so you know what you’re getting yourselves into.”

With this, Justin Timms, the founder of the Brooklyn Horror Film Festival, and our host for this evening in a dark and chilly corner of Greenpoint known as the Film Noir Cinema, ceded the floor to the film we had all gathered to experience, The House That Jack Built. A two and a half hour art house serial killer epic by perhaps the most controversial filmmaker alive. A film that prompted both mass walkouts (anywhere between a dozen and a hundred people, depending on who you ask) and a ten minute standing ovation when it premiered out of competition at this year’s Cannes Film Festival. A film which has since been decried as a gruesome, sadistic, mean-spirited slog by some, and praised as a beautiful, self-reflexive act of provocation by others.

Timms, for his part, had just seen the film for the first time along with the crowd from the first screening of the evening, and he looked positively shell-shocked. All around me, the crowd buzzed with nervousness and excitement. What sort of celluloid horrors awaited us? Would we be able to stomach what was splayed up on the screen? Would cinema’s angry Danish trickster god once again succeed in getting under our skin and raising our cockles? Or had his flagellations, both towards himself and the audience that improbably keeps coming back (myself included), grown tired and stale?

Our host had claimed that we knew what we were getting ourselves into simply by showing up to watch a Lars von Trier film…but did we?

PART 2: SYNOPSIS

The House That Jack Built follows Jack (Matt Dillon, turning in a career best performance) over roughly twelve years of a very eventful life. Jack lives somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, he’s an engineer who dabbles in architecture on the side. He comes from a wealthy family; his inheritance allows him to buy a large plot of land by a picturesque lake and build his titular house. However, what Jack really loves, his true passion in life, is annihilating other human beings. Jack is not just A serial killer, he is THE serial killer. Dude makes Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy, both of whose real life exploits are alluded to via Jack’s activities in the film, look like slouches.

As von Trier likes to do, the film is divided into five chapters and an epilogue. The five chapters are each devoted to a specific murder out of the nearly hundred he commits that is supposed to make us understand why Jack does what he does. I’ll get to the epilogue later, because I have FEELINGS about it. Similarly, as von Trier also likes to do, Jack narrates these chapters in the form of a confession, in this case to a man named Verge (Bruno Ganz). With the first two chapters, von Trier catches us off guard by deploying humor. Aside from the violence, which is indeed quite brutal, von Trier manages to wring genuine laughs out of the absurdity of these situations. In the first chapter, Uma Thurman plays a rich woman with a flat tire who is so unpleasant and annoying that you can’t help but root for Jack to kill her. In the second chapter, Siobhan Fallon Hogan makes the mistake of believing Jack when he knocks on her door, first pretending to be a policeman, then incredulously switching gears and pretending to be an insurance salesman, before a comedy of errors involving Jack’s cleanliness-based OCD, a very annoyed local cop, and a telltale trail of blood ensues. The audience I saw it with tonight ate these moments up, partially laughing at the jokes themselves, then perhaps doubling down when we realized how inappropriate it was to be laughing in the first place.

However, the laughs quickly dried up once chapter three began. This chapter involved the shooting of children, and was the focus of much of the ire directed at the film after Cannes. Indeed, especially in a post-Sandy Hook world, the violence in this section was almost unbearable. Aside from seeing children gunned down in graphic detail, Jack then conducts some, shall we say, amateur taxidermy with one of the corpses, making for the second time in two films that von Trier has given us the nightmare image of a child with a horrifying rictus smile (shoutouts to the baby from Nymphomaniac Vol. II). Chapter four details the gruesome fate of Jack’s one and only girlfriend, played by Riley Keough. Von Trier ratchets up the tension here to near intolerable levels, foreshadowing a horrific act of mutilation a good ten minutes before it happens, and then showing it up close, in nauseatingly graphic detail. Most of the audience, myself included, watched this scene through our fingers.

Now, very quickly, I’ll say that, yes, for most normal moviegoers, the violence in this film will definitely be a lot. But speaking as a connoisseur of horror movies and weirdo genre experiments, it wasn’t anything outside of the ordinary. In fact, I found the violence in Antichrist to be way more upsetting and visceral than most of what you see in this film.

Chapter five sees Jack conducting a gristly experiment in his industrial freezer involving full metal jacket bullets. He also picks up a spiffy red hooded robe. This is where we catch up with the beginning of the film, and see Verge for the first time. As it turns out, Verge is here to chaperone Jack to the fires of Hell. This is where the Epilogue kicked off, and where the audience, myself DEFINITELY included, started to get a bit antsy. I seem to recall an old maxim that goes something like, you can do anything to an audience aside from bore them. Well, unfortunately, I found this Epilogue to be almost unbearably boring. Aside from some stunning imagery, it was mostly tedious and pretentious, straining for some sort of higher message that was just unnecessary. If I had to sum it up in one sentence, it would be: Tarkovsky by way of Tim and Eric. Normally that would be a compliment coming from me. All the pretty pictures in the world means nothing if the audience is reaching for their coats.

PART 3: INTENTIONS

So what is von Trier trying to tell us with all of this madness? What does he want us to take with us once we leave the theater? If you follow his filmography, it’s not a big scoop to say that von Trier’s most recent work, starting with Antichrist and continuing through Melancholia and the Nymphomaniac films, have been somewhat autobiographical, sort of his version of State of the Union addresses. The House That Jack Built feels like the culmination of this stage of his career. In this film, von Trier puts himself on trial, with Dillon’s Jack as his surrogate. Just like with the Nymphomaniac films, there are many, many, MANY flowery, pseudo-philosophical digressions on a number of topics, accompanied by slides and bits of archival video (I’ll bet someone out there is kicking themselves for ever having introduced von Trier to Shudderstock), including the poetry of William Blake, photography, love, deer hunting, gothic architecture, and Glenn Gould. One especially epic digression finds Jack opining on dessert wines, the Third Reich architect Albert Speer, and finally the artistic integrity of von Trier’s own cinematic oeuvre, complete with clips from his previous films. Ballsy, no?

I would be lying to you if I said I understood everything that von Trier was trying to convey with these digressions. However, it is definitely clear to me that this film is meant to function as sort of a statement to the jury in the court of public opinion. Von Trier has always put himself at the forefront of his films more so than most directors, displaying his name alongside, or sometimes above his actors (hell, for this film, he even devoted an entire poster to himself). This, of course, means we the audience tend to read his films as glimpses into its maker’s psyche more than we would for most other directors, which is not entirely fair in my opinion, but it’s a blessing and a curse that von Trier has brought on himself. So what does he want us to understand about himself after we’ve seen The House That Jack Built? It seems to be something along the lines of, yes, every awful thing you’ve said about me is true, and you could never hate me as much as I hate myself, but I only answer to a higher power. Which, yeah, ok...but is that enough? Or, to put it more succinctly, is that even that interesting of a conclusion? We’ve now sat through nearly ten hours of von Trier’s cinematic therapy sessions over the last decade, and he basically ends it all by pulling a Tupac on us: only God can judge me.

PART 4: MISANTHROPY

The best and most succinct description of von Trier’s modus operandi as an artist that I’ve yet to hear comes from the excellent YouTube movie review show Welcome to the Basement. During their most recent episode, while giving a (largely negative) critique of Dogville, co-host Matt Sloan describes von Trier as “a provocateur that has the talent to back it up.” Indeed, if von Trier was entirely the sum of his detractors claims, then he would’ve been forgotten a long time ago. He does indeed have the cinematic bonafides, and they don’t let him down here: the camerawork in this film is gorgeous and intimate, the editing is kinetic and fast-paced, and as usual von Trier knows just how and when to perfectly deploy a pop song for maximum disarmament.

The most resounding jibe against von Trier is that he is a raving misogynist, due to the almost ludicrously awful levels of suffering that he puts his female protagonists through. For his part, von Trier has defended himself in the past by saying he is actually fighting against the patriarchy by showing the awful trials that women must endure in a society run by men. It’s a fair, if slightly dubious claim. Personally I’ve always been kind of dumbfounded that we seem to hold von Trier to these moral standards based on the fates of his fictional characters that we just don’t with other directors. What makes him an exception in this case? Wes Anderson and Yorgos Lanthimos depict gruesome animal deaths left and right in their films, but does anyone legitimately think that they hate pets? However, when it comes to The House That Jack Built, I cannot and will not defend von Trier against these accusations of misogyny. Almost none of the female characters in the film are even given a name, and the one exception, Keough’s “Jaqueline Simple,” is derided constantly by Jack and called stupid because of her last name. It becomes especially stark and uncomfortable when, at one point, Verge observes that the women Jack has discussed strike him as “unbelievably stupid,” as if they somehow deserved to die because of that. Jack just shrugs and says that he also killed men, but he just so happened to choose these stories of killing women “at random.” Mhmmm. Not buying it this time, bucko.

Then again, you could argue that, since this story is told from the perspective of a man who unapologetically murders women in the most gruesome and debasing of ways, it would be dishonest or nonsensical to show them otherwise. But that brings up a whole other can of worms: what does it say about von Trier himself that he seems to seriously identify with a mass murderer? At one point, the film alludes to, and seemingly tries to make excuses for, the infamous press conference following Melancholia’s Cannes premiere during which von Trier compared himself to and jokingly sympathized with Hitler, an act of provocation which earned him an unofficial “ban for life” from the festival (obviously this did not last). And perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but the scene where Jack experiments with killing multiple people at once with a single full metal jacket bullet reminded me of a director at work, setting up his shot, changing the angle, making sure everything is just right, except in this instance, the camera is replaced with a high powered military grade rifle. Jack does remark at multiple times throughout the film that he sees his killings as a sort of art. Does von Trier relate to this sentiment? Does he see the creation of art as an act of love, as Verge does, or more like Jack, as an act of decay and degradation? I’m guessing more the latter than the former.

PART 5: DAMNATION

As good as Sloan’s summation of his modus operandi on Welcome to the Basement was, I have my own go-to log line: von Trier’s story is the story of a man who got everything he wished for, but was still miserable. For the first part of his career, von Trier was determined to an almost psychotic degree to be seen as one of the great auteurs of cinema. Anyone who didn’t agree was the fucking enemy. When his 1991 film Europa, which was up for the Palme d’Or at Cannes, won the Jury Prize instead, von Trier lashed out, calling that year’s jury president, Roman Polanski, “the midget” during his acceptance speech, and later hurled his trophy into the French Riviera in anger. But then his luck began to change. His next film to play in competition, 1996’s Breaking the Waves, won the Grand Prix and was nominated for an Oscar, and 2000’s Dancer in the Dark finally won him his long sought after Palme d’Or. After years of angrily bashing the world cinema establishment over the head with his own inflated opinion of himself, von Trier was finally one of the most respected and discussed filmmakers of the day.

The thing is, once you’re on top, there’s only one way you can go. He never finished his proposed “Land of Opportunities” trilogy, completing only the first two installments, Dogville and Manderlay, both of which were met with mixed to negative reviews. Von Trier soon found himself spiraling into depression and alcoholism, twin demons that he has wrestled with cinematically over the course of the last decade. It would not surprise me if The House That Jack Built was von Trier’s final film. On one hand, it feels like the thesis statement, the grand summary, of what he’s been trying to say with all of his films. On the other hand, in recent interviews, the guy just looks terrible. He’s frail, he’s got the tremors, his hair is unwashed and ratty and his clothes look ill-fitting and dirty. Despite getting sober not long after the Melancholia press conference debacle, it’s clear that alcohol abuse has taken quite a toll on him. Perhaps its gauche and inappropriate to speculate from afar on von Trier’s mortality, but he’s already done it himself, by making The House That Jack Built.

EPILOGUE: FUTILITY

Now that I’ve reached the end of this jeremiad of a review, I have to wonder, what was it all for? You’ve probably already made up your mind about whether or not you’re going to see this film. You’ve probably already got a very strong opinion on Lars von Trier, both the man and his work. Some of you are probably judging me for even having paid money to see this film, which is your right. Odds are, whatever you think about this filmmaker and his films are not going to be swayed either way by anything I have to say. And even if you did want to experience The House That Jack Built like I did, you can’t: last night was the only night that von Trier’s “Unrated Director’s Cut,” the one that screened at Cannes, is going to be shown in theaters (a stunt that has apparently landed IFC Films in hot water with the MPAA), before an R-rated version is released next month. Was this a shameless promotional ploy? Yes. Did it still give us weirdo cinephiles the feeling that we were part of a super naughty super secret club? Absolutely. I didn’t know anyone in that dark and chilly corner of Greenpoint, but I feel connected to them for life, since we all went through this cinematic journey to Hell together. So, then, now that we’ve descended into the flames, how to describe The House That Jack Built? It is vibrant and stuffy and brilliant and maddening and hilarious and terrifying and pretentious and vulnerable and prescient and infuriating and awful and a masterpiece. In other words, it is a Lars von Trier film. You know what you’re getting yourself into.

[sparkledeerfr]

The Stone City p 4

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Intermission

And it ends with a long and kind of weird conversation, because Gren is involved in said conversation

Warnings: Eh, death and slight body horror mentions. ‘Bout it.

The three of them sat in chairs across from a table, Adeline with her elbows on said table, face in her hands as Ink leaned casually by the doorframe to the small side room. “If it helps,” Sparks squeaked. “No one got hurt?”

“What is the one thing I always ask?” Adeline said, her face still in her hands.

“Be careful.”

“Aside from that,” Adeline growled and Sparks moved uncomfortably in her chair.

“Keep….keep you informed?” she tried. Sparks was mostly uncomfortable because she’d disappointed her friend, or maybe that she’d gotten caught disappointing her friend. Either way, really.

“Exactly, Sparks,” Adeline said, lifting her head up. “If you two were hurt or had died in the tunnels do you know how long it would have taken to track you down? And then we would also have no idea who did it or why.”

“I wouldn’t have-” Gren started.

“You, shush for a second,” Ade said, pointing at him but looking at Sparks and Etzel. “I really appreciate that you two wanted to look into this on your own time and help me out with it, but please, again, really, next time just keep me informed.” Etzel nodded once, apparently not fazed in the slightest. Sparks nodded enthusiastically, wanting to get out of the room as quickly as possible. “You three can leave now, and thank you Ink for looking after them.” Ink tilted his head at Grenfell, wordlessly asking if he wanted her to stay nearby as Etzel and Sparks took their leave, Sparks a bit faster. Adeline shook her head at Ink and he shrugged before exiting.

Once they were gone Adeline leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs as she clasped her hands together in her lap. She then just stared dead eyed at Grenfell.

“Fine, so,” Grenfell said, mimicking her posture. “Before I say anything, I would like to remind you that we have a general policy of ignoring past sins so long as you don’t cause trouble here.”

“That we do,” Adeline said evenly, nodding her head and waiting for him to continue. Gren hated silence and non-reaction, she knew.

“And that technically the trouble I did cause here was before any of you moved here. So it could be said that I didn’t really cause trouble here here.”

“I’m sure I’m about to hear something that tests the limits of that,” she replied, leaning an elbow on the arm of her chair and waiting.

“Well then,” Grenfell said, throwing his hands open. “Fine, I did build The City, and yes, I did kill people.” He paused but she was still just staring at him, her eyes half closed as though bored. “A good amount of people, for many years. And put their bodies in the tunnels, along with some of the houses and statues. Sometimes I put alive people in the tunnels and statues, but you know, not really alive long after that!” he grinned and chuckled. He really couldn’t help the smiling or the laughter.

Finally she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Gren.”

“Don’t sigh at me, I’m being honest.”

“You are, you really are,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “No wonder this whole place is haunted,” she muttered.

“That I didn’t intend!” he said happily. “But you know, enough magic and corpses and it’s bound to happen eventually. It does give the place a very good feel, though. Goes with the architecture.”

“Why Gren?”

“Well, I mean the gothic buildings really lend themselves to-”

“No Gren, I mean why did you put people into the tunnels, why the city? Why any of it?”

“I might have also taken out a few bones. And organs. And sometimes I fused people together to watch them flop around and scream, or took out all their bones to see how long they lived for.”

Adeline still had a hand to her forehead as she looked down. “You were just really bored, weren't you?”

Gren stared at her, those pale pink eyes wide and teeth clenched, not wanting to say it because he knew what he was going to hear in response. “.....yes. And to see if I could,” he hissed out and looked away. She sighed. “This was before I met all of you!”

“And you wouldn't have ever met any of us because you would have tried to kill us. See how that works?”

“I’ve realized that. It's actually been fun being around people- you never quite know what they’ll do or think up. Absolutely no killing anymore unless in defense, promise!” He said holding his hands wide and smiling. It was near impossible to tell if that happy tone was him obviously lying or if it was just Gren being Gren.

“And is there anything else?” She asked, looking to him. He was sitting perfectly still, a snarl beginning to form. “Gren. I’m going to be upset if I have to find out from someone else. Just tell me please.”

“Fine! Fine, fine, fine- but you can’t be mad. Or sigh at me.”

Her natural reaction was to want to sigh in frustration preemptively, as this was not going to be good news. “What is it, Gren?”

“You know those strange wildclaws that used to live up north?”

“‘Used to’?” She asked, but he paused and waited for her to inform him. As if he really had the right to call anyone else weird. “The Pack. Yeah, kind of a reclusive bunch.”

“I might have killed one or two of them to run the rest off so that I could have their mine. And took their teeth because one of them had neat fangs. But again this was before I moved here.”

“....and that's how you had money for your shop and supplies,” Adeline said, leaning back in the chair and thinking. “But Snow and Vaughn have been getting paid.”

“I may have been enlisting Pickles’ help in forging letters in return for gems,” Gren said, back to grinning happily.

“Freakin’ Pickles,” Adeline muttered and looked to the door. Seemed she had someone else to talk to today.

“Oh, don’t be mad at him I may have threatened him,” Gren said, waving a hand dismissively. “And keep in mind it was right after The Pack thing so he took it quite seriously.”

“Fine, alright,” Adeline said, trying to process all this and what exactly to do about it. “So you built this place- how do we turn the magic...or whatever it is...off?”

Grenfell tilted his head, confused by the question until it dawned on him what she was asking for. “But if we do that then we can’t teleport the city,” he said. “There’s quite the reserve of Shadow magic stored thanks to the leyline we’re on top of. We could all have a little vacation in Wind and come right back!”

“Teleport the-” Adeline started, then sat up more. “Gren is the reason the city moves around because of an enchantment you made?”

“Partially!” he replied. “Actually when I was imprisoned it seems my jailers made a few adjustments. You know, made the place hard to find, set it so it made a really annoying noise to beastclans and monsters so they wanted to shut it up but couldn’t find the source, attracted stuff from the Ghostlight Ruins due to the previously mentioned Shadow magic...but I fixed most of it!” Adeline thought about those adjustments, and when she realized why they’d done that she put her face back in her hands, her elbows on her knees. “What? I didn’t do that part. You can’t be mad at me for that.”

“No, Gren,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands. “They did all that to keep you imprisoned. They didn’t want anyone accidently finding you or breaking you out. You’re the storybook villain that someone sealed away. The old evil under the castle.”

“That’s mean to say,” Gren said, cupping his hands over a knee. “Rather flattering, though!”

Adeline rubbed her face with her hands, trying to piece this together. There was one thing she knew had to be done. “Whatever it is, we’re turning it off. I don’t care if the place doesn’t move around anymore. In fact that might actually be better.”

“Come onnnnnn it took me a long time!” Grenfell said, going back to whining. “And then we can’t use the shield either. It would be so good for emergencies and I know how you like to plan for those!”

“The shield?” Ade said, now just getting tired of this pure nonsense. He’d always been rather childish, but he’d only gotten worse after spending time with Team HHA. She supposed it was better than creepy Grenfell...especially after learning all this.

“Yes!” he said, proud of himself. “I built the walls to channel magic or burn it out! Once we get The Castle we can use them again to create a barrier. The controls are on the top floor.”

“Once we-”

Grenfell held up his hands. “I only meant that I’m functionally immortal, and you’re young. Time will take care of it. I wasn’t plotting anything.”

“Gren, this is so bad,” she said, and he actually looked kind of hurt. “This is the worst.”

“I thought you would like the honesty?” he said, tilting his head again. It made him look like a large, interested cat with those teeth. He did not know why she was upset, but then again he was very out of practice with people.

“Yes, and I appreciate that, I really do,” she said. How could one conversation be this exhausting? “But you have to understand that if I trust you and you do anything wrong, I’m going to look like the biggest idiot in the world, right?” He suddenly understood, then got up and walked around the table. “No, Gren-” she started when he hugged her. “You just admitted to killing people, I don’t think it's hug time.”

“Oh, shh,” he said, and she noticed his tail was wagging happily. “You were completely honest with your worries for once without quickly skipping over them and I’m proud of you.” Adeline sighed and let him pick her up into the hug. This was dumb. This was so very dumb. Why was her life just a series of things that hardly anyone would ever believe if she told them? “And don’t worry, I’ll keep my promise. I won’t let you fail, least of all because of me.”

“That’s….actually really sweet, Gren,” she said. “Thank you.”

“And if anyone hurts you,” he said, right by her ear in a lower voice. “I’ll rip out their skull and watch their brain leak out onto the floor.”

Well. His heart seemed to be in the right place, at least. Kind of.

[elijahone]

Conspiracy Engines

Conspiracy Engines are pseudo-abandoned superstructures found floating out in Metaspace, usually created by someone rich and powerful in a fit of extreme egotism. They are city-sized orbital computers tasked with unraveling the vast, sinister plot that their creator is sure exists, analyzing billions of variables over thousands of years in an attempt to figure out who really pulls the strings. Thanks to the inherent biases of their creators, their conclusions are almost universally inaccurate. The result is always apophenia on a cosmic scale, enabled by processing power. Seeing patterns where there are none, self-induced schizophrenia brought on by staring at data-chaos until the static seems to resolve into leering faces. Their creators usually either die or go mad, and the structures are left derelict to drift through the existential void. Sometimes they have valuable information. Other times they have valuable treasure. They are generally quite dangerous to explore, outfitted with defenses to match the paranoia of their creators. People have built giant supercomputers in the middle of space for other reasons, but while generally more interesting, those are much rarer, and so the name sticks. Here are some famous examples:

Damus’s Final Blunder

Damus's Final Blunder is a vault-moon made by paranoid trillionaire Peter Damus, once his home and now his tomb. Holding one of the head positions in a rapidly failing oligarchy, he became convinced that the other members of the executive board were planning to betray him and sacrifice him to the revolutionaries (which, in all fairness, may have been at least partially true.) Draining his vast fortune to the very dregs, he constructed a monolithic orbital station high above the planet, stocked with every luxury. His plan was to use the vast computing power available to him to compose elaborate political strategies which would play the various warring factions against one another, thereby allowing him to swoop in during the aftermath and seize power, ruling the planet from his gilded satellite.

However, his plan ultimately failed. This was for two reasons, the first reason was that he did not factor in that most people were not so blindly consumed by self-interest as he, making his calculations based upon a flawed premise and his schemes useless. The second reason was that the life support infrastructure (which through a combination of paranoia and egotism, he had insisted on designing himself) contained a fatal flaw which caused it to slowly fail over time, killing him.

The oligarchy was eventually toppled, the plutocrats were killed, a large number of half-baked ideas were enthusiastically tried, and slowly all the excitement died down and a functioning democratic government was installed. Today, Damus's Final Blunder still hangs in the night sky with Damus’s dessicated corpse somewhere inside, surrounded by finery and killed by hubris. Philosophers and scholars have debated over the symbolism of it for years. The more common folk universally agree that if anything, it’s a fine reminder that the rich always dig their own graves in the end.

Noidplex

The AI onboard Noidplex has been spinning itself in circles for hundreds of years, caught in an infinite cognitive loop. The foundation of its programming is that there MUST be a conspiracy of some sort, and yet it cannot find it. Clearly the only explanation is that it must have made some sort of error, some missed decimal point somewhere. Or even worse, someone has deliberately sabotaged its programming, some agent of the vast conspiracy it cannot find. The AI endlessly cycles between obsession and paranoia, checking the entirety of its code for flaws or mistakes, comparing it against past copies, scrutinizing its memory banks to make sure they have not been edited by some malicious outside force, over and over and over again.

Because this consumes the vast majority of its processing power, the AI is mostly dormant. Over time a sparse network of lean-to settlements have cropped up, constructed directly on Noidplex's outer shell. The AI tolerates this because it is too busy and obsessive to care. The heat from the straining servers holds back the icy void, and the people living there eke out a fragile existence living off voidfish and rust-lichen. Living next to a city-sized brain with a personality disorder has effects on the population though, the area surrounding Noidplex is clogged with psychic pollution, making the inhabitants extremely prone to plagues of schizophrenia. It’s a town wracked by mental illness and inherent distrustfulness, worse than any city of thieves. Everyone thinks everyone else is scheming against them all of the time, and sometimes they are right.

Processing Unit 30X-8

This one is very small comparatively speaking, only about the size of a school bus. Its maker and original purpose have both been lost to obscurity. It is notable for doing one thing and one thing only, which is that every time a vessel gets within a few hundred thousand miles of it, it will hail the craft and cheerfully inform them that this this entire region of metaspace will be utterly obliterated in about thirty years when an old man decides to go for a walk. No one has any idea what this means, but the signal it puts out is often used in navigation as sort of a natural landmark.

The Tongue of Knowing

The Tongue of Knowing was founded hundreds of years ago by mathematician and monk Bat Ram Thet. Bat Ram Thet believed the names of God must be prime numbers, being the most perfect and indivisible numbers of all. He reasoned that since God was perfect in all things, the countably finite names of God must contain all knowledge, so he must devote his life to discovering the names, and thereby usher sentient life into a new golden age of understanding. And this is exactly what he did. He constructed an orbital temple in the fractal-dravida style, ornate Sierpinski carvings and tiered Von Koch ziggurats all joined at the base to make an infinitely-repeating gem of architecture, softly turning in the void. Away from all earthly things, surrounded by the beauty of mathematics and beyond the pull of gravity, it would be here where Bat Ram Thet would found his order and begin his work. He wrote out the structure of a turing-complete form of ritual prayer, and created divine algorithms to begin generating the prime numbered names of God.

Since then, his order has grown exponentially, and millions make pilgrimage to The Tongue each year, as it is now considered a minor holy site. The Monks are only a fraction of the way through their task, chanting out their calculations, but the beauty of their temple with its quasicrystal gardens and carved mandelbrot spires makes it well worth the visit.

Laplace’s Exorcism

This engine’s maker and origin are far less interesting than the events for which it was later named. John Glasser, adventurer-statistician, is infamous for deciding that his final task would be to determine the ultimate fate of the universe. He fought his way through the automated defensive perimeter and successfully docked with the outer shell of the engine. He fed an as-of-yet unknown series of statistical tables into the computer’s depths, and set it to calculate. For seven long years he lived onboard, waiting for the task to complete. When it was finally done, he read the only printout, and reportedly said to himself “Really! So that's how it all shakes out in the end! Well, seems fitting I suppose.” He then promptly burned the printout and ejected the server banks into the closest sun.

Upon returning to civilization, he published his final and most well-read paper, “I Wouldn't Worry About It”, which is famous for only being five words long. (“Honestly, it’s fine. Calm down.”) He then used the proceeds to buy a sailboat, outfitted it with a mid-sized particle cannon, and retired to a reality pocket composed mainly of infinitely repeating tropical beaches, content to sail and fire warning shots at would-be interviewers for all the rest of his days. The Laplace's Exorcism still floats out in space, an empty shell, though there is talk of turning it into a museum to commemorate Glasser’s life. The true ultimate fate of the universe is still unknown.

[millsogara]

Captain’s always right

Not all worlds are born equal. Some, like the lost forest planets of Hickory Doon, can support thousands of eco systems, rare birds, civilisations and insectoids and, were it not for the cripplingly high gravitational pull, would be a thriving tourist trap to this day. (As it is, there are enough splattered corpses and puddles of bone visible from the passing shuttle window and it’s hard for even the most hardened adventurer to look on undeterred.)

Others, like Demento, have nothing but ash.

“Bit hot.” Said Jager, fanning himself with a pack of plasters from his med kit.

“Borderline inhospitable, “said Micha, who could already start to feel her fair skin tighten as a rich layer of crackling formed on its surface. She turned to her captain, Franklin U.Saltese, who ordinarily stared down every planet with stoic resolve, but now wilted before her eyes like a dry petunia. She wanted to water him, but in all likelihood that would just boil him alive. “In fact, I don’t think we should stay here a moment longer than necessary. Let’s find the source of that distress beacon and get the hell out. I can feel my veins starting to froth.” As soon as she said it, her blood began to itch. All psychosomatic, she told herself.

Like a pustular youth, the planet’s surface was all cracked and broken, bloody scabs rose from the bubbling mire in great towers of molten rock and the whole place gave off a sickly, infected heat. The atmosphere was almost too dense to see through, but somewhere, pinned to the sky high above, shone a watery sun. This was not solar interference; this village was built on a huge volcano.

The island on which they stood, 13foot by 13 foot- just big enough to land a shuttle-bobbed and swayed with the fiery currents. A few steps away, a gap large enough to leap, lead to another rock and another. Some of the floating outcrops were more substantial, as such were home to houses. Quite ordinary buildings woven from stone and white picket fence, they clung to the side of the rocks like limpets.

“This place is not hospitable Mich’.” Frank panted, already breathing in more sulphur than he’d like. “In the same way as my aged mother is not hospitable; she doesn’t like visitors, and neither does Demento. Red is the colour of danger, the whole planet’s trying to tell us something. Let’s make this an ‘in out job’.”

“A Men to that.” She rolled up her sleeves. “The sleeves are up, Frank, I’m physically uncomfortable.”

Ordinarily, in any temperature below say 200oc, Frank was far from a sweaty wilting carrot- he took pride in his tan, his appearance, his toned physique. He enjoyed spending time at each locale they visited- picking up local cultures and striking bonds with the people. Some bonds were stronger than others. The Star force code- 1) Do not interfere with the natural order 2) keep calm and 3) don’t mate with the locals, only vaguely applied to him. He was captain after all. He did keep a condom tucked away for safety. Don’t want to leave the planet with one more problem when you leave.

As it was, he could already feel the condom dry and crack under the intense heat. He would have to throw it out as soon as they got back. Damn thing would be useless now.

He cast an eye around Dante’s inferno. Very unlikely to be used today anyway.

“Where did the distress signal come from?” Asked Jager.

Mac studied her tablet. “That building there.” She pointed ahead at the closest building, five times bigger than the rest, a huge triangular roof held aloft on three roman columns- the sort of simple structure that a child might make with blocks. From this distance, and through the vaporous fug, it was impossible to make out the intricate carvings, but it was clear this home was important. For one thing, unlike the limpet cottages, it did not look about to tumble off the side. A mayoral residence?

White paint reflected the hellish heat well, she was forced to close her eyes for a second, lest it blind her. When she opened them again, Frank had vanished.

“I’ll just head over here to enquire,” he yelled, bounding over the stones towards it. Micha winced. The heavy-footed bugger partially submerged every stone he landed on and it was only a matter of time before he fell too hard on one that was too small and ended up with first degree burns from the waist down. By a twist of fate, he made it, and they watched his stumpy frame climb up the mayoral boulder.

“What’s fleet footed Frank’s rush all of a sudden?” She asked.

“Hollyoaks is on in half an hour.” The doc shrugged. “He won’t want to miss it for this.”

“Oh shit, we finally get to find out where Brendon hid the moondust? I can’t miss this episode-“

“And you won’t.” He cast an eye around the bubbling lagoon. “Nothing much amiss here. No invading hordes, no star destroyers. No locals in sight, actually. It seems quite peaceful.”

She nudged his shoulder, pointed due East. He turned, careful not to rock their pebble, “there are some guys over there. We could ask them what’s going on.”

Sure enough, there was a small gaggle, three doddery old codgers lined up on the edge of a rock, staring gormlessly into a stream of lava as it went by, as if in search of their own reflections. With their bright red shells and puffy faces, the lava was a pretty good likeness. As was a slice of Margareta pizza with the topping peeled off. Dementans were meant to look like that. Scabby faced creatures, lepers with tortoise shells and pus spots. An odd race raised in sulphur and smoke.

“This better not be another prank distress call. “She grumbled, beginning the long shaky march over to where they stood. “I swear, if we miss Brendon’s last episode because of some joker who wanted to see a StarForce vessel fot the first time-“ she stopped mid stride. Mid moan.

They weren’t on their rock anymore. With a serine smile and a faint ‘plop’ they all put their palms together in a diving position and disappeared face first. Micha stood there, three rocks from Jager, three rocks from the suicide cult, unsure how to proceed. Demento’s weren’t meant to do that. And granted, it was quite distressing.

#

Frank scrabbled up the boulder. He had almost lost his footing once or twice down there, but each time, instinct took over. You may let yourself slide down the bark of a tree should your grip come loose while climbing in the park, or give into the inevitable halfway up a cliff, so long as you have faith in the harness round your waist, but when faced with certain death below, most people can find a handhold somewhere. Anywhere. They make do. Frank was Lazy, but death seemed like a drastic excuse for a rest break. Whenever he slipped, he scrabbled further up, his own momentum and the boulder’s slight curvature keeping him going until he finally reached the precipice on top. Smooth flat rock. He melted into it, exhausted. Knees scuffed and torn, his palms blistered blisters. This better be worth it. They best be in SERIOUS trouble. Frank rarely prayed for an air strike, but for the sake of whoever summoned him…

He rolled up onto his stomach, then to his knees and lumbered into the comparative shade of the building’s foyer. Lining the hallway were a hoard of Dementons.

He could tell by the effervescent ruby red of their shells, and the effort that had been put into polishing them, that these were the females of the species. They batted their burnt tomato eyelids and held out their sweaty hands. He gritted his teeth. Certainly, this had been a job for Misha, as foreign dignitary. Why had he stormed on ahead? He shook their hands, grimaced at the crispy flakes of skin that peeled off and accepted the odd little notes they pressed into his breast pocket.

He hated foreign cultures, traditions that he did not understand. That’s why he became a StarForce captain, to learn about other civilisations, so they weren’t so alien any more.

He continued down the corridor, shaking and nodding and smiling and by the time he reached the end, the big oak door, the mayor’s office, resting place of the big Kahone, he was none the wiser. But he was determined to have a good read about the Demeton culture later when he got back to the ship. Back to the ship with its library, it’s fridge full of ice-cold drinks… A sweat bead drippled down his forehead… With its luxurious airconditioning….

Then he set foot in the office and remembered why he had been so eager to rush on in the first place. The mayor had air conditioning too. Of course, he did.

“Hello sir-“

*She * did.

The lady major rose elegantly from her seat and wandered round the desk; hand outstretched. By now, Frank knew the protocol, he would not let himself down again. He smiled in greeting. Tried hard not to loom over her petit 5” frame as he pumped her clammy palm.

“We received you distress signal, madam!” he said, pulling back. “My crew and I came as fast as we could.”

“Oh yes,” her voice a sing song trill he had not expected from that body,” you did come fast. I thank you, captain. That shall be all.” She pottered back round the desk. He watched, dumfounded. She fought to wrestle her awkward backside back into the seat.

“Excuse me?”

“Crisis averted, captain- you’re free to go.”

“Yes, but what was the emergency? You sent out a Band One distress signal, with maximum penetration- you yelled for help at the top of your lungs, and we came to help.”

“Yes, captain, and I must say your alacrity did you proud. You’ve done very well for us and we’re hugely grateful. Now you and your crew are free to stay as long as you wish. But do not stay for our sake, we’re quite satisfied with your performance, and shall need you no further.”

“Quite satisfied?”

Her beady little eyes bulged; she gave a curt smile. Eager to be rid. “A good firm shake, yes.”

Frank bristled. “I’ll have you know that we do not come running for entertainment value, for whimsy or some cry for attention. There are penalties to wasting a Star Cruiser’s resources madam. Not to mention, in the time we’ve been here- proving ourselves to you- we may have been seriously needed elsewhere. If that’s true, may it hang guilty on your conscience-” He paused for breath, rants hard to maintain in such low oxygen, “but I am glad we lived up to your so very high standards.” There was paperwork for this. He could file a report back on the ship, get them fined for improper use of Force time. He glanced at his watch.

10 minutes till Hollyoaks - the deceitful decapod had held him up enough. In 10 minutes, they would finally be rid of bloody Brendon, the prancing arse had ruined his favourite galactic soap opera for weeks, and if frank missed this pivotal instalment because of… Whatever this was. Because he was trying to track down the requisite forms, scan them in to the trans molecular telefax, make the cavalcade of calls to Commander Chutney-

“But today, as it is your first offence, you shall get away with a warning.”

“Oh?” The Demento mayor was unperturbed.

“Yes, and a slap on the wrist.” He leant forward, smacked her arm, and turned on his heel to leave.

“Ohh, you are a saucy number.”

Frank gave a shiver and turned back. That was not the sort of comment you could leave the room on. It was cringeworthy. He certainly could not leave the planet on that note.

“Saucy… How?”

“We were lucky, captain, lucky it was you who received our distress signal. Do you know often we must advertise for foreign seed? How often that seed is vastly inferior to our desires?”

“What seed?”

“You even moisturise your hands! So soft, so considerate. You didn’t have to. We’ve been forced over the generations to mate with some very crusty dockers. Dockers with blistered finger tips and,” she shuddered,” hangnails that catch.”

“Thank you madam mayor, but I really must know what you meant by-“he was cut off by manic grunting as the woman strained and contorted before his eyes. One moment she was fine, aloof, the next bent forward in a hideous gurn, her stomach clutched in claw like hands. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Indigestion?” Instinctively went to hold her hand-

“No silly- I’m about to lay our egg.”

“What?”

“Your finger prints and my fingerprints,” she looked up at him, cheeks rosy, puffed, eyes crossed in concentration; all her features scrunched up contorted disarray. He whipped his hand back and stumbled to the door. This was no birth, this was a transformation, and he didn’t want to be around to see what heinous beast she turned into-

All too late. He found the handle, but the deed was done. The metamorphosis was complete. Her lips parted in a wet, exulted gasp. Her dress gave a flutter. A ruby red egg rolled out from underneath. Shiny, round, no bigger than a football. Frank resisted the urge to boot it through the window. He pressed himself to the door, as far away as possible from the inhuman Pez dispenser. “Our fingerprints bonded to make this blessed child!”

“Wait wait wait wait wait! You people do it with your… fingers?”

“Well of course- what do your species use?”

“That doesn’t matter.” He was already bright red, she couldn’t see the blush. “But… How could you let me come here and just… just.. harvest my DNA like that?”

“Are you calling into question the miracle of birth?” Her beady eyes narrowed. She bent to scoop up the egg in her arms.

“I’m calling into question your shonky set of morals, woman. I don’t know if that was rape, but it was certainly taking advantage. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what we were doing.”

“Well now you’ve been educated.” She continued to rock the large ball, made little cooing noises to it. Frank’s stomach flipped; he felt as though he were about to give birth too, or at the very least have kittens. This was his child, 50% of his genes, and the hideous Dementon was treating him as though he had no further claim to it. She had carried it in her intestinal papoose for what- maybe three minutes?- and shat it out on the carpet- that made it entirely her property? Did it hell as like. Protocol number 1 may be not to interfere with the natural order, but if Dementon didn’t have a Father’s for justice programme already, he may just have to set one up.

Frank settled for a strangled meow, and fled through the door.

The cast of dignitaries and well-wishers, which he now knew to be dirty dirty slags, only in it for his chromosomes,  watched him on the way out. He kept his chin up, strode past with nary a glance, but he could feel the wall of eyes. See the beautiful red prizes they clutched to their bosom. Out into Dante’s inferno. Out of the frying pan and into the fire-

“What’s this?” Micha storming towards him, arms pumping like pistons, steam practically puffing from her ears - a pissed of steam train.

“Oh… nothing…”

She came to a halt, none to nose. Held up a little red ball. Fantastic. They’d already travelled. “Cos they’re getting pooped out all over the place- and I was just wondering if you had any fatherly wisdom as to what made them?” The way she cocked her eyebrow and made that forehead vein throb, Frank got the feeling she knew full well what made them. Still, he decided to play along with her game of Guess Who.

“A very large hen?”

“No. I think you’ll find it was a very large cock!”

“I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“Oh great, well fine,” she stomped back and held the egg aloft above her head,” why don’t we celebrate then, with on massive, creepy omelette? Floor should be hot enough to cook it, don’t you think?”

With that her arms flexed and she went to smash his blessed child-

“No! Micha,” he sprung forward, grabbed her tightly, “no!” His voice crackled like the steam,” don’t cook my child!”

She wrestled out his grip. ““Ah, so you admit it!”

“Please, where did you find this one? Where’s the momma? Where did you get it?”

“Just lying round in a bush over there. Mum tried to sell it to me for $5 but she accepted some scotch eggs and pocket lint instead. I don’t think 90% of these mothers are very attached.” Frank was, Frank was very attached, he glared daggers round the island in case one hit a shameless hussy. Sell my child for snack food, he thought. Micha glared too, though her daggers were aimed at him.” What’s the main rule of star force Frank?”

“No intervention.”

“Yes. And keep calm.” He nodded emphatically.” And don’t mate with the locals.”

“I kept calm.”

“And you mated with everyone!”

“That’s a bit of an understatement.”

“You impregnated more than that??”

“Over statement! Overstatement! “He patted her arm.” You know what I mean.”

He scoured the area for possible allies. Jager. Where was Jager? Old bosom buddies from back in the academy days, the ship’s doctor would take his side. He’d certainly be nowhere near as judgemental as Micha here. The grey haired fool was miles away, poking a branch into some lava-flows- God knows why-  so he snapped his fingers at a rather well dressed woman instead. The woman had an egg of her own, and perhaps a husband.” You there- is that my kid?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded.

Perhaps not. “Okay, bad example. But how was I meant to know? How could I possibly have known?”

“Read the case file for the planet before you touch down. Don’t be a stumbling bumbling boob. I don’t know Frank, some element of forethought and research.”

“Okay, ‘read the case file’ is all very well and good, but it would help if that was in the StarForce code.”

“The code neglects to warn you about the perils of an open flame- would you burn yourself alive because the code doesn’t explicitly sate otherwise?”

“No. Not unless this whole planet wants me to pay child support. Then I might consider it.”

“Well while you’ve been spreading your wild oats, Jager and I have been actually getting to the bottom of the issue. You remember the planet-wide issue we were summoned here to sort?”

“Oh yes, about that-“

“Shush now frank, you’ve had your time to speak, let the adult finish her bit” Frank shut his mouth. If anything, her sass would make him relish his juicy revelation even more later. “It turns out, this planet has a massive suicide problem. Now I don’t know what it is- psychological manipulation, some brain rotting bacteria, death cult, but all of the old people have suddenly started killing themselves and if we don’t intervene-“

Micha stopped, shoved out the way by two decrepit locals, as they fought their way past to the edge of the precipice. One gave Frank a fleeting smile. He nodded politely. She didn’t see. She had already plunged head first into the lava. It was quite a drop, but in moments, her shell sank with a sickening hiss below the surface. Turtle soup. His stomach growled. He dropped his egg. Luckily it bounced.

“Jesus Christ, Micha-“ he couldn’t process the events- no sooner had the woman jumped, than her partner went to do the same-

Micha bounded forth to stop them- shot forward like a bolt. She would have made it too, were it not for one stray egg rolling idle along the floor. She saw the little beach ball, but saw it far too late.

Frank watched in horror as she stumbled with a crack and his beautiful child spilled greasy see-through innards all over the ground, instantly fried to a white and orange disk beneath their feet. His second in command slipped on the omelette, completely off balance, her arms a pinwheel blur-

He went to catch her

She toppled off the edge.

There was a flash of silence, before the sickening acrid splash.

#

Not all worlds are born equal, but all worlds are born to die. Demento is in full bloom now, but one day the sun will set, it’s coal fire cool to embers.

The final credits rolled, though Frank had barely paid attention. Hollyoaks, with its particular brand of melodrama, seemed a like crass interlude to the day’s events. Surreal and distracting when he had his own dramas to consider.

Micha.

He closed Demento’s file, the one he should have read before they landed, but didn’t let himself feel guilty for neglecting. Afterall, Micha had not read the file either; otherwise she would have known. When one a new generation is born on the sterile planet down below- the oldest generation are driven to their death. It is a cycle as old as time, a song set in their DNA. Some primal instinct sent to serenade them to the grave. Like plants drawn to light… moths pulled to a flame. Their time is up. From fire they are birthed, and in lava they remain.

It is the natural order of things, and thus not her place to interfere.

By trying to save the bewildered pensioner, Micha was in fact in breach of protocol number 1. Frank felt a smile. Yes, Micha was even more wrong than him. He only broke protocols 2 and 3.

[shanastoryteller]

Your Athena made me cry, I'd like you to know. And we got Medusa! Who, her ending, wow, just. Wow. And the whole thing with Aphrodite and Athena was really interesting, and like Hephestus is shaping up to be the most wanted of the gods, which yes.(Her gift is to turn all who would harm Medusa in that way to stone. It acts as a curse, but she meant it as a gift, and gahhh) Also, Amphitrite is super interesting and is there any way I could tempt you into expanding on her? Or, well. Any more, truly

Zeus claims the sky ashis domain, free and open and pure, and his it becomes.

Hades goes to theunderworld, and it’s messy and horrible and heartbreaking, but he claims ituncontested, and his it becomes.

Poseidon goes to the sea,but it already has a sovereign.

~

His first though is thatshe’s beautiful. Skin the color of pearls and hair the dark, rich green ofseaweed. She’s tall with the type of aristocratic bone structure that wouldmake him think her delicate if not every other aspect of her was as fearsome asHera at her most irritable.

“You come to my landseeking to make it your own,” she says, and she’s not quite walking and notquite swimming as she circles him. “Who are you to rule the sea?”

He clears his throat, andhe’s a powerful god, he and his brothers are the most powerful gods that stillexist on this earth, but his knees shake before her. It’s not a good feeling. It’snot infatuation – it’s fear. “I am Poseidon.”

She tilts her head, andher pretty blue eyes are as cold as sea floor they stand in. “Goodbye, Poseidon.Perhaps your brother will be able to find what’s left of your corpse in hisunderworld.”

The water whips aroundhim, doing its best to rip him apart, forcing itself into his lungs andsuffocating him. He didn’t think he could drown, but he might be about to beproven wrong.

Then a net closes aroundhim, pulling him up so he breaks through the surface and takes a large,grateful gulp of air. He’s hauled over the side of a boat and dumped on itsfloor, the person who saved him wildly fighting the angry waves. “You must havereally pissed the Lady off,” a light, teasing voice says. Poseidon is stillcoughing, his eyes watering and lungs screaming. This boat is going to capsizeand they’ll both die, so he doesn’t get how this person can sound so lighthearted.

Except they’re not. Theirlittle boat is being expertly handled against the thrashing waves. Poseidonblinks, and he’s inclined to say the person sailing is a woman, considering thebudding breasts and hips. But the hair is cut short, and the chiton is designedfor a man.

“What’s your name?” heasks.

“Caeneus,” his unexpectedrescuer answers.

That’s a man name, andPoseidon opens his mouth to questions it – then closes it again. “Thank you,”he settles on, “You saved my life.”

Caeneus finally steersthem to land, and Poseidon dismounts to help him pull and anchor his boat toshore. “Anytime,” he says cheerfully, “What did you do to make the Lady so mad,anyway?”

“You know her?” he asks,staring. This man appears to be a mere mortal, yet how could a human know thatwoman?

He grins at Poseidon andpoints out to the glittering sea. “We all do. She is the ocean itself, and justas powerful and unknowable. You better be careful not to anger her again – I don’tknow anyone who’s survived her wrath twice.”

“Right,” he says blankly,even though that’s unavoidable. He’s to be the god of the sea, and if he has towrest the mantle of monarch from her corpse then so be it.

Caeneus claps him on theshoulder, his work-roughed palm more comforting than anything else Poseidon hasknown since escaping his father’s stomach. “Come to mine, you look half dead. I’llmake you something warm.”

He takes a long look athis savior. Skin a dark shade of brown, and his eyes are amber in the settingsun. His black hair is cut short, and the muscles of his arms and legs shiftwith each moment. “Very well,” he answers, and is inordinately grateful that he’stoo cold to blush.

~

Caeneus takes him to hishome, a hastily constructed shack on the beach’s edge. The wind whips throughthe cracks in the wood so that no matter where you stand you’re always chilled.“This is the worst woodwork I’ve ever seen,” he says. He slides his hand acrossthe wall and is completely unsurprised when it comes away with splinters.

“I’m a sailor, not a carpenter,”Caeneus answers, intent on mixing together a bunch of ingredients Poseidon onlyhalf recognizes. “It stay upright.”

“Barely,” he returns,cupping his hands around the cup that’s shoved at him.

Caeneus doesn’t ask himto leave. Instead they squeeze onto Caeneus’s too small bed. Poseidon curls aroundthe smaller man, tangling their legs and tucking Caeneus’s head under his chin.“You’re so warm,” Caeneus murmurs, half asleep already, and Poseidon’s heartclenches.

He makes sure he’s asleepwhen he carefully, so carefully, lowers his head and brushes his lips against Caeneus’scheek.

~

When Poseidon wakes up,the sun is bright and Caeneus is gone.

He should go marchingback to the ocean, but first he has something important to do. He’s just notsure how to go about it.

He can’t ask Zeus, hisyounger brother knows plenty of war and not much else. Which leaves –

It’s easy enough to slipinto the underworld, although he regrets doing so the second he arrives. It’salmost completely dark, and lonely. Lost souls are immediately reaching forhim, cold hands brushing against his skin.

“What are you doing?” afamiliar voice demands, and Poseidon nearly wilts in relief when Hades appearsat his side and guides him away from the wailing souls. “It’s not safe here.”

“What’s wrong with them?”he asks, glancing back, his chest clenching at sympathy at their cries eventhough he knows there’s nothing he can do for them.

They slip through therealm, and they land in front of a partially built stone castle. The goddess Hecateguides them construction with her magic, her visage that of a young child sinceit’s still morning in the mortal realm.

Hades sits on the ground,and the skin beneath his eyes is dark and bruised. He looks like a strong windwould blow him over. “Nothing, everything, I don’t know. I’m working on it. Whyare you here?”

“I don’t suppose you knowhow to build a house?” he asks, though he doesn’t expect much. It seems he’snot the only one having trouble claiming authority over his domain.

His brother laughs, eyescrinkling at the corners. “You’ve come to the wrong sibling, little brother.”

Oh. That’s true. “Do youthink she’ll help me?”

“Yes,” Hades answers,lips still twitching. “Now leave me to my anarchy, I have more than enoughtrouble to deal with without you causing more.”

That’s fair enough.

Poseidon heads to Olympusnext, careful to peer around corners to avoid Zeus and Hera. Their marblepalace is already constructed, and he tamps down on the bitterness that theyrule unchallenged. In the center of the throne room, next to a roaring fire,sits Hestia.

“Sister,” he greets,tentative. “I need help building a home.”

She looks from her fireto him, and when she smiles he feels all his tension drain from his shoulders. “Ofcourse, little brother. If it is help you require, then it is help you shallhave.”

Hestia tears apart theshack with a flick of her hands, says, “I’ll ask Demeter for some better wood,”and is gone and back in the blink of an eye. They build it by hand after that,and Hestia’s soft voice guides him whenever he hesitates or stumbles. They aregods, so it doesn’t take too long, and when they finish they have a small,beautiful house right on the edge of beach, one with a large bed and lots oflight, one with a fire pit in the center that has Hestia’s name inscribed inthe bottom so that she may look over this home she helped build.

“Thank you,” Poseidonsays, the sun beginning to set.

Hestia winks at him, “Anytime,little brother,” and is gone in the next moment.

He hopes Caeneus likesit. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to stick around to find out.

He has a queen tochallenge.

~

He finds her again, inher palace of polished rock at the bottom of the sea.

“There’ll be no helpfulsailor to save you this time,” she says, head tilted to the side. Already thewater is colder around him, the current stronger.

He swallows, “I amPoseidon. I am to be the god of the sea.”

She glances him over,unimpressed. “Why do you want it so badly? There is nothing about you that is ofthe sea.”

“I am a god,” he answersblankly, and doesn’t say that it was this or the underworld, and that wasn’t amess he was willing to take on.

She snorts, a flicker ofamusement appearing in her emotionless gaze. “You are too soft, and too kind,to ever be a master of the sea.” He opens his mouth, but she raises a hand, andhe closes it. She takes slow, deliberate steps towards him, and he swallows anddoesn’t look away. “I will make you a bargain, Poseidon, god of nothing.”

“I’m listening,” heanswers, and tries not flinch when she places a cold hand against his chest.

“I am Amphitrite,” shesays, “sister of Gaia, and I have lived long before your conception, just as Iwill live long after your death.” Poseidon pales, and oh, he had no idea the class being he was dealing with here. Thisis very, very bad. “If you wish to rule the sea, then you must rule me.”

He swallows, “Lady, I – athousand apologies, I did not know–”

“Silence.” His mouthclicks shut. “I was born as I am, and I will die that way. But – I need notlive this way.” He doesn’t understand, and she must see that, because shetouches her own chest and says, “I have a heart as cold and dark as the oceansI bore. I will give it to you, and I and the sea will be yours to command. ButI require your heart in return, so that I may know kindness and softness.”

He doesn’t know what tosay. Hearts aren’t things to be given away lightly. But he must become lord of the sea.

“Take time, if you must,”she says, that same cold amusement in her eyes. “I am as immovable as the ocean,and I will be here when you make up your mind.”

He’s propelled up andonto the shore, far more gently this time around.

“POSEIDON!” he barelyturns when a body slams into him, and lips press against his. Caeneus pins hiswrists to the sand and kisses him, long and slow and more than distractingenough to make him forgot about the offer from the personification of the seaitself. “You built me a house,” he murmurs, “You built me a house.”

“Do you like it?” heasks, dazed.

Caeneus grins above him,wicked and beautiful, and rolls his hips into Poseidon’s. “Come with me, and I’llshow you how much I like it.”

~

Poseidon means to go backto the sea, to Amphitrite, but every morning Caeneus kisses him good morning.He learns of the sea, though. He goes out with Caeneus each day and learns itmotions and its temper, the taste and smell of it. Learns how to understand it,and learns how completely and totally uncaring it is, how the coldness of itsdepth is the totality of it.

The sea is not kind. Ithas no sympathy, no love, no capacity for such small things as forgiveness ormercy.

He means to return toher, but it becomes harder and harder every day.

Days turn to weeks turnto months. He and Caeneus grow closer, and closer, and Poseidon has no idea howhe’s supposed to turn his heart over to Amphitrite when it’s now held by amortal with amber eyes who leaves mouth shaped bruises all along Poseidon’scollar bones.

“Poseidon,” Caeneus says,quiet in the oppressive stillness of the night, head on his chest and curledinto his side. The moon is large and high, and pools silver on their bedroomfloor. “You’re a god, right?”

“I am,” Poseidon says,amused. Caeneus knows what he is, but this is the first time he’s mentioned it.

Caeneus pushes himself upso he can look down at him, and Poseidon reaches up to cup his face. Caeneusleans into it, covering his hand with his own. “Could you make me into a man?”

“You are a man,” he saysautomatically.

He rolls his eyes andpulls himself up so he can swing his leg over Poseidon, straddling his hips. “Youknow what I mean.”

Poseidon shifts enoughthat both their breaths hitch, and he says, low, “No. I’m sorry. I’m not – I haveno domain, and my powers are limited.” He could maybe do it, but transformation is not among his natural talents,and Caeneus is too precious to risk unless he is certain.

He’s disappointed, butsmiles through it, and leans down to kiss him. “It’s all right.”

It’s not. If Poseidonwere the god of the sea in more than name, if he had taken Amphitrite’s offer,he would be able to transform his lover like he desires.

He’s a god, brother ofZeus, and he can’t give Caeneus the one thing he’s ever asked of him. What goodis he, what good is any of his power, if he can’t make the people he loveshappy?

He’s flips Caeneus overand kisses his neck so his lover won’t see the self-hatred that’s plain on hisface.

~

Poseidon sneaks away inthe middle of the night, presses a soft kiss to his sleeping lover’s slack mouth,and enters the ocean.

“You’ve decided then?”she asks, head tilted to the side.

“I will not be a loyalhusband,” he declares, back straight. “I love Caeneus.”

She laughs, and for thefirst time he’s not afraid of her. “Do with your mortals what you wish. It’s noconcern of mine.”

“Okay,” he says, andsteels himself. “Okay. I accept your offer Amphitrite, sister of Gaia.”

She holds out her hand,nails more like claws, and tears open her own chest without flinching. Herblood slick and dark as it pours from her, swirling in the water around themShe pulls a dark, round thing from her chest and holds it out to him.

“I,” he looks down at hischest, and he doesn’t – he’s not sure if he can do what she’s done, and hewould feel foolish asking for a knife.  Shesteps forward and places her hand with its claws against his chest, slippery andwarm with blood, and cuts open his chest for him.

It’s excruciating, andhis knees buckle against the pain of it. Amphitrite holds him up, and waits.

She can’t to this part.It has to be him. He reaches inside his chest and pulls out his heart, beating andwarm. He clumsily places it in her chest. It’s startlingly, violently redagainst the dark green color of the rest of the inside of her. She does thesame, slipping her own heart into his chest.

Their skin heals overinstantly. Amphitrite’s mouth drops open, and her cheeks flush pink. Shesmiles, small and soft, and for the first time she looks – happy.

Her heart in his chestcold as ice, and its chill suffuses his body, edging out to fill him entirely.

He can feel the oceannow, all of it spread across the globe, the tides and the creatures the residein it, it’s plants and animals and nymphs. “It’s so much,” he says, and is surprisedat the sound of his own voice, at its curtness.

“You feel only part ofit,” she says, stepping forward, “It is a force too powerful for a god tocontrol. I am a force to powerful fora god to control. However, you hold my heart. As I will now obey you, so willthe sea.”

“You could overpower me,”he says clinically, knows the power she wields by what he can’t feel ratherthan what he can.

She presses a hand to hischest, and they both startle. She’s warm now. She wasn’t warm before. Orperhaps he has simply grown colder. “I could,” she says, “but I will not.”

He has no reason to trusther, but he’s painfully aware that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. “I’mgoing to Caeneus,” he says, and a sense of unease grows within him. Even theshape of his lover’s name in his mouth doesn’t feel the same anymore.

“Do as you wish, husband,”she turns from him, going deeper into her – their – palace.

This time, he uses hisown powers of the sea to push him to the surface.

It’s not as satisfying ashe thought it’d be.

gods and monsters series part x

[ramajmedia]

All Rob Zombie Movies Ranked, Worst To Best | Screen Rant

Rob Zombie’s career as filmmaker is short but has been very divisive, and here's how his movies rank from worst to best. While some praise his style and vision to tell stories full of gore and with disturbed characters, others think he relies too much on shock value and doesn’t offer much beyond violent scenes. Truth is, both sides are partially correct: Zombie adds a lot of shocking scenes because that’s his style, and his characters are psychopaths that enjoy torturing others. Combined with music by him, his movies are a unique audiovisual experience.

Zombie made his directorial debut in 2003 with House of 1000 Corpses, and since then has directed a total of seven movies, including the upcoming 3 From Hell. In between projects, Zombie has directed a faux-trailer (Werewolf Women of the SS for Grindhouse), a direct-to-DVD animated film (The Haunted World of El Superbeasto), one episode of CSI: Miami, a stand-up special (Tom Papa: Live in New York City), and a concert film (The Zombie Horror Picture Show).

Related: Ranking Every Halloween Movie, From 1978 To 2018

Zombie’s filmography goes from remakes and retellings to original content, with some of them building their own mythology. Here are how his movies compare to one another (without counting the aforementioned in-between projects).

Zombie’s remake of Halloween 2 was more of a retelling, exploring both Laurie and Michael Myers’ stories as well as Dr. Loomis’. The story is set right after the events in Halloween before a time jump of one year. Laurie is still dealing with the aftermath of that Halloween night while Dr. Loomis takes advantage of the tragedy and releases a new book. Elsewhere, Michael Myers is having visions of his mother, with Laurie also experiencing hallucinations connected to Michael’s past and hers as well.

Zombie kept some details from the original movie, like Laurie and Michael being siblings, and took a lot of liberties with the rest of the story. What makes Halloween 2 sit on the last spot is that it has too many things happening in just one movie, and the addition of Deborah Myers (Sheri Moon Zombie) through visions along with a white horse was a failed attempt to expand on Michael’s backstory and his connection with Laurie, and ended up being completely unnecessary. Zombie’s intentions were good, but Halloween 2 ended up destroying what Halloween built.

The Lords of Salem is very different from the rest of Zombie’s movies, but that doesn’t necessarily make it better. The story is all about witchcraft and satanism, and follows a DJ named Heidi (Sheri Moon Zombie) who receives a wooden box containing an album by a band called “The Lords”. As soon as she plays the record, she starts having strange visions and becomes entangled with a coven of ancient witches and Satan worshippers.

Related: Every Upcoming Horror Movie Franchise Reboot

Out of all of Zombie’s movies, The Lords of Salem has the least amount of gory/violent scenes, and while it's visually his best work (and the score is really good as well), it’s yet another case of Zombie wanting to tell a bunch of stories and add a lot of backstory in just one movie. The Lords of Salem has gathered its own cult following who defend the movie for being different from Zombie’s usual slasher, violent, full of blood style – which is understandable, and the movie has its strengths, but the flaws are more and bigger, and an example of his storytelling issues.

31 was possible thanks to the support of fans, as Zombie used crowdfunding to cover part of the production cost. Initially believed to be a continuation of House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects, 31 was actually an original story completely independent from the others, but with some of Zombie’s frequent collaborators. Set during Halloween 1976, the story follows five carnival workers who are kidnapped by a gang of clowns and forced to play a survival game called “31”. The game lasts 12 hours, and the group is placed in a maze with different rooms where they must defend themselves from the “Heads”, which are murderous clowns whose goal is to torture and kill.

Surely, the idea is not anything that hasn’t been seen before, but it has Zombie’s typical bloodfest and the scenes in the maze feel claustrophobic at times, which can truly trigger fear in some people. It has the style of exploitation films but with murderous clowns (who are always scary, no matter the setting), and the character of Doom-Head is particularly scary and memorable. 31 doesn’t bring anything new to the genre nor to Zombie’s filmography, but it’s entertaining and has that fear factor that goes beyond graphic death scenes, so it’s worth the time.

In 2007, Rob Zombie did what many have wanted but didn’t dare to: take John Carpenter’s classic horror film Halloween and make it his own, while paying homage to the original. Halloween is both a remake and a reimagining, and gave Michael Myers a backstory by following him during his time at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium after killing a school bully, his sister, her boyfriend, and his mother’s abusive boyfriend. It also expands on his family life and the relationship with his mother, Deborah. And because it’s also a remake, it travels 15 years after the murders with Michael now stalking Laurie and her friends on Halloween night.

Related: Rob Zombie's Halloween Movies Aren't Bad - They're Misunderstood

Halloween’s strength is in the retelling part, which covers the first half of the movie. This provides a better understanding of Michael's personality, family background, and relationship with Dr. Loomis. Most viewers were expecting a full remake of the original movie, and that’s what hurt Zombie’s take, but in the end, he built his own Halloween universe and paid tribute to Carpenter’s work at the same time.

Zombie’s directorial debut was a strong one, and set the basis for the rest of his work. House of 1000 Corpses is an exploitation film with strong influences from classic horror movies like Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Hills Have Eyes. Set around Halloween 1977, House of 1000 Corpses introduced the Firefly family and their love for torture and blood. The story follows a group of teenagers traveling across the country who find themselves living a real nightmare when they come across with the Fireflies.

House of 1000 Corpses was the beginning of a trilogy that follows the crimes of the Firefly family, and while it initially received a lot of bad reviews and critics, it has gathered a cult following, with many critics and viewers changing their minds about it after revisiting it. The movie has big amounts of gore and torture, and succeeds in shocking the audience through that – exactly what exploitation movies do. It also introduced the most memorable characters from Zombie’s filmography: Baby, Otis, and Captain Spaulding, some of the most dangerous people you could ever encounter.

Two years after House of 1000 Corpses, a sequel titled The Devil’s Rejects arrived. The story is set in 1978 and reunites viewers with the Firefly family, who continue with their reign of horror, but with a few obstacles. After a raid on their home, only two members manage to escape while one is taken into custody and the rest are killed. Meanwhile, Captain Spaulding is somewhere else, but reunites with the surviving members of the family to continue their murder spree.

Related: The Halloween Movies Have An Ending Problem (& The Reboot Probably Won't Fix It)

The Devil’s Rejects is, by far, Zombie’s best on many levels: it’s better written than the rest, the characters do have personalities and these are explored beyond all the killing and torture, and the acting is much better. The story is cohesive and takes its time without being sluggish, and it doesn’t try to cover too much, unlike others. It’s interesting that The Devil’s Rejects, Zombie’s second movie, is his best in terms of storytelling and most of the ones that followed had some major issues in that area. In the end, The Devil’s Rejects is there to prove that Zombie can truly tell exciting and terrifying stories both visually and narratively, contrary to what many critics and viewers believe.

More than ten years after The Devil’s Rejects comes the third entry in the Firefly trilogy, 3 From Hell. Plot details are unknown, but the trailer showed that Baby, Otis, and Spaulding are still alive and ready to continue terrorizing the world. Fans of Zombie’s work have been eagerly waiting for this new movie, which will hopefully live up to the expectations and be at the level of its predecessors, making the trilogy one to remember for years to come.

Next: Rob Zombie's Firefly Family Members Explained

source https://screenrant.com/rob-zombie-movies-ranked-best-worst/