#legacy
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simsbyyelhsa · 2 days ago
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While out on their date Akira flirted with another woman right in front of Jasper. Jasper was devastated. Akira seemed apologetic but with his constant need of reassurance Jasper told him they need couples counseling if their marriage is going to work. Right now they have a very strained relationship but they are trying to remeber happier times.
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saydesole · 2 months ago
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Black Southern Blues Singers
Happy Black History ✊🏿
Marvin Sease 1946-2011
Betty Wright 1953-2020
Johnnie Taylor 1934-2000
Denise Lasalle 1934-2018
Z.Z Hill 1935-1984
Ms. Jody 1957- Living
Mel Waiters 1956-2015
Tyrone Davis 1938-2005
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viniciusvill · 1 year ago
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The Sims 4 - The Eras Legacy
By Viniciusvill & grenesims
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Don't be strict while following the rules. Let your imagination fly free, follow your story and have fun!
Acknowledgements:
To Taylor Swift for creating amazing songs that bring me so much joy.
To grenesims, my co-writer who kindly agreed to help me create this challenge.
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call-me-oluss · 7 months ago
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Legacy
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bookishsongs · 9 days ago
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We created a fan soundtrack for Legendborn called “Legacy” and it’s streaming everywhere. Here is the artwork that @viinas did specifically for each of the songs!
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novaursa · 5 months ago
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Legacy
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- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.
- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Next part: dinner with a lion
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround
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The heat of Harrenhal’s stone walls suffocates you as you sit, bound and chained, in a shadowed cell, distanced from the other prisoners. The silence presses down heavily, disturbed only by the occasional scurry of rats in the corners and the distant, echoing clamor of soldiers outside. They’ve kept you here as a prisoner of value, locked away from the common rabble. No one dared speak your name aloud, but you know what you are to them—a Targaryen, a relic of a world shattered and hunted by Robert’s Rebellion.
Your eyes trace the rough-hewn stones, your thoughts lost in Winterfell's cold embrace, where you’d been a ward, a stranger among wolves yet somehow belonging. Ned Stark's honor had felt like a shield back then, the North your sanctuary. That safety, of course, had long been stripped away. The warmth of winter fires, the laughter of his children, Arya’s giggling fits as she followed you through halls… You press those memories deep, lest they break you here in this hollowed-out fortress of despair.
The iron door creaks open. You don’t lift your head, knowing that if it’s a guard, his words will be as cold as his chainmail. Instead, you hear the soft scuff of small, light footsteps—a child’s, perhaps, or someone pretending to be one.
“Y/N?” The whisper is barely audible, like a breeze skimming across snow. You jerk your head up, blinking to adjust to the light spilling into the cell. A thin figure stands just outside the barred door, cloaked in rags, dark hair wild and tangled around a dirt-smeared face. The eyes, however, are unmistakable—storm-grey, fierce with a fire that the years hadn’t dimmed.
“Arya…” you breathe, hardly believing what you’re seeing.
She glances around quickly, as if expecting someone to appear out of the shadows, then steps closer to the bars, wrapping her hands around them. She is small, thin, but you can feel her strength through the steel.
“They’ve separated you from the others,” she says, her voice low but urgent. “Why?”
A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “They know what I am. Who I am.” You can’t help but reach through the bars, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “But they don’t know you, it seems.” You pause, studying her. “Why are you dressed like…?”
Her face hardens, though her eyes still shimmer with the relief of seeing you. “I’m Ary. A boy.” She grins a little. “Keeps me safer that way. They don’t look too closely at boys.”
You nod, understanding. Clever girl. Brave girl. Your heart aches at the thought of her wandering through these deadly halls, relying only on wit and stealth. “You shouldn't be here, Arya.”
“Neither should you,” she retorts, voice fierce. “You think I’d just stay hidden, knowing they have you locked up like some...prize?” She gestures toward your chains. “You’re all they talk about.”
The words sting, though you knew what you were to them—what you’d always been in the eyes of those who held power. “Yes, well, they love parading relics of conquest.”
Arya scoffs, glancing down the hall as the clang of footsteps grows closer. She pulls back slightly, but her gaze holds yours. “I’m going to find a way to help you.”
Before you can respond, the guard rounds the corner, a hulking brute who grunts upon seeing Arya standing too close to the bars.
“Oi, boy!” he barks, jabbing a gloved finger toward her. “What’re you loitering around here for? Get along!”
Arya nods quickly, ducking her head. “Sorry, m’lord. Was just looking for scraps.”
The guard snorts, shoving her away with a meaty hand. “Scavenge elsewhere, rat.” His eyes slide back to you, cold and suspicious, before he turns and lumbers away down the hall.
You exhale slowly, your fingers trembling against the rough metal of your chains. In another life, Arya would have been free to roam Winterfell’s hills, a wild little shadow among wolves. And yet, she’s here, risking herself to reach you. As she slips away, she looks back just once, her expression determined, her eyes flashing with a promise.
The hours blur together after that. Servants and guards move past occasionally, sneaking glances but offering no words. No one knows what to do with you; even here, your Targaryen blood marks you as something foreign, an unpredictable fire they’d rather keep contained.
But then, as night falls and the cold sets in, Arya returns, slipping through the shadows. She brings a small hunk of bread and a waterskin, passing them through the bars.
“Eat,” she whispers, watching you with a fierce, protective glint. “You need to keep your strength.”
You take the food gratefully, feeling a spark of warmth. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice low. “How did you…?”
“I’m faster than most of these lumbering fools,” she says, a spark of pride in her tone. “I’ve learned things. I know how to make myself invisible.”
You chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the quiet cell. “You always did have a knack for hiding. Even in Winterfell, you could vanish like a shadow.”
Her face softens, a brief flicker of nostalgia crossing her expression. “Winterfell feels like a lifetime ago.”
“For both of us,” you reply, meeting her gaze, the weight of shared memories hanging heavy between you. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Arya. These people…they won’t think twice about harming you if they suspect anything.”
She nods, her expression fierce. “I’ll be fine. But I’ll come back. I’ll find a way to get you out.”
There’s a fire in her eyes, a determination that reminds you so painfully of her father. And as she slips away into the darkness, leaving you alone once more, you feel a renewed sense of hope—a fragile, flickering ember amidst the cold stone walls of Harrenhal.
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The hours drag on, each one marked by the slow drip of water echoing in your cell, but eventually, the familiar rhythm of Harrenhal’s dungeons changes. You feel it before you see it—a shift in the air, the sound of hurried footsteps, the murmur of anxious voices reverberating through the stone walls. The guards move with unusual purpose, stiffening as they march past, casting wary glances at each other.
And then it clicks. A name floats through the muted conversations, spoken in low, reverent tones. Tywin Lannister.
Of course, he would come. Tywin would never leave something—or someone—of value to fate or neglect, and as a Targaryen in Lannister captivity, you are valuable. The realization sends a chill through you; you know what Tywin’s arrival means. After all, this was the man who orchestrated Robert’s Rebellion from the shadows, who ensured your family’s ruin.
Hours pass, leaving you with your thoughts, steeling yourself for the inevitable. It is nearly dusk when you hear his unmistakable footfalls—a measured, deliberate pace, the stride of a man who owns every room he steps into. The door to your cell opens, and there he stands, backlit by the torches in the hallway, his sharp gaze fixed upon you with that calculating intensity that has always defined him.
You rise slowly, the chains at your wrists clinking softly as you meet his gaze, refusing to bow or avert your eyes. He steps forward, and the guard closes the door behind him, leaving just the two of you in the silence of the cell.
"Y/N," he greets, his voice low and steady, as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a prisoner.
"Lord Tywin," you reply, keeping your tone neutral, though a simmering resentment lies beneath it. "I wondered how long it would take you to come see me."
He inclines his head, a barely perceptible acknowledgment. "I was surprised to learn you were here. I'd thought my orders were… clear."
"Well," you reply, voice laced with defiance, "your orders seem to have missed me by a few years and several hundred leagues."
A flicker of something passes over his expression—irritation, perhaps, or simply the mild inconvenience of something not going precisely to his plans. He regards you with that unyielding gaze, assessing, calculating. "You always did possess a certain… rebellious streak."
You lift your chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "It was a trait I shared with my family. At least, those who survived."
"Indeed," he says, with a faint curl of distaste. "And yet here you are, once again, a ward of sorts—though not of Winterfell this time." He studies you a moment longer before taking a step back, hands folded behind his back. "I did not expect you to involve yourself in… certain matters."
"I didn’t choose this," you reply, the bitterness plain in your voice. "Do you think I wanted to end up here, in the middle of this war, far from my family?"
Tywin raises an eyebrow. "Family? The very family that plunged the realm into chaos and left nothing but ashes and memories?"
You grit your teeth, the anger simmering within you. "My family fought for what was theirs. They believed in protecting their own."
"Their own." He almost laughs, the sound devoid of warmth. "A convenient justification." He takes a measured step toward you, his voice lowering. "But there are two choices now—obey, or find yourself utterly without power or purpose in this realm. It’s time to accept which path will ensure your survival."
The implication hangs heavy in the air, but you hold your ground. “And what path is that, exactly?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the door with an almost casual wave of his hand. “You will be brought to me, Y/N. The other prisoners here… they are of no value, save for labor. They’ll be put to work.”
You look away, unable to hold his gaze, a knot of resentment building in your chest. You know what this means—that he intends to keep you close, in his grasp, as leverage, as something he can wield. Just another prize in his relentless pursuit of control.
“Then I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” you say quietly, resigned.
“Choice?” Tywin’s lips twist into a thin smile. “Perhaps not. But survival? That, you do.”
He pauses, his gaze lingering on you, assessing you once more before turning toward the door. Just before he leaves, he speaks again, softer this time, though there’s no warmth in his tone. “There was a time I believed you would find your place at Winterfell. Let’s hope you find it here in Harrenhal, though I doubt it will be as kind.”
With that, he turns, his cloak sweeping behind him, and the door closes. You are left in silence, the chains at your wrists heavier than ever as you stare at the empty doorway, Tywin's words echoing in your mind.
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They bring you through the winding stone corridors of Harrenhal, flanked by guards who grip their weapons as though you might suddenly decide to fight. You don’t look at them, choosing instead to lift your chin, steeling yourself for what awaits. Soon, you reach a heavy iron door and are led into the dimly lit council chamber, where Tywin Lannister sits at a rough-hewn table surrounded by maps and documents. His eyes flick up as you enter, cold and unblinking, assessing you as if you were a pawn on one of his battle maps.
"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chair across from him.
You hesitate, a beat of defiance thrumming in your chest, but there’s little point in resisting now. With a quiet dignity, you take the seat, keeping your posture poised, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you appear weak.
For a moment, he says nothing, his piercing gaze steady as he studies you, hands clasped before him. The silence between you is thick, heavy with the weight of a past neither of you acknowledges directly.
"Have you thought of what your place here will be, Y/N?" His voice is measured, devoid of warmth. “It’s time you learn that your loyalty—whatever remains of it—has a purpose.”
“Is that what you’re hoping to extract from me?” you reply, tone cool, unwilling to betray any weakness. “Loyalty?”
Tywin’s mouth forms a thin line. “I had thought that was something you would recognize. I recall a time when I gave you something very few in Westeros would have considered—a chance. Yet, here you are.”
You raise an eyebrow, the bitterness you’ve tried to suppress bubbling to the surface. “If you’re expecting a thank you, Lord Tywin, for ‘saving my life’ and sending me North, you’ll be disappointed.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, though his face remains otherwise impassive. “I expect no gratitude. Only an understanding of what is required.” His gaze sharpens, icy and relentless. “The time for grudges and sentiment is over. We are at war, Y/N, and there are no innocents in war.”
You bite back a retort, letting the words settle. Tywin had always been a strategist, a man who saw lives as currency in his endless schemes for power. To him, you were a valuable piece in this game, nothing more.
Before you can respond, there’s a shuffle at the door. A small figure enters, head down, dressed in rags that disguise her almost entirely. You freeze, a flicker of recognition sparking within you. Arya. She’s keeping her head low, her gaze on the floor, playing the part of a servant boy with remarkable precision.
Tywin barely acknowledges her, but you sense the tension rolling off him as he glances briefly at the child. “Good,” he mutters, gesturing for her to approach. “Pour us some wine.”
You catch her eye just for a split second, then force yourself to look away, masking any flicker of recognition that might betray her. Fear coils in your stomach, a sick dread gnawing at you. Arya is so close to him, close enough to be touched by the man whose armies are locked in a brutal struggle against her brother Robb.
She moves with surprising grace, her hands steady as she picks up a pitcher of wine and fills Tywin’s cup first, then yours. You can sense her nervousness—the slight tremor in her hands, the careful restraint in her movements. Every instinct screams for you to shield her, to pull her away from Tywin’s cold gaze, but you force yourself to remain still, trusting in her disguise.l
Tywin raises his goblet, studying you over the rim, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You’ve come a long way from the girl I once sent North,” he says, taking a slow sip. “And yet, I wonder if you truly understand the stakes of the game you’re caught in.”
You meet his gaze head-on, a defiant spark igniting in your chest. “Perhaps it’s not the game I care about, Tywin. Perhaps I’ve come to understand that there’s more at stake than power.”
He sets down his goblet, fingers steepling before him, his expression hardening. “That’s where you are mistaken, Y/N. Power is the only thing that matters. It is the only reason you are here, alive, in this moment.” He gestures to the chamber around him, as though the walls themselves bear witness to his authority.
Beside you, Arya keeps her head down, silent as she completes her task, retreating a step as if hoping to melt into the shadows. Yet, despite her best efforts, your gaze drifts to her, a rush of protectiveness coursing through you, though you know it’s a risk. You want to shield her, to keep her far from Tywin’s attention, from his scrutiny. Her fate hangs by a thread, poised perilously close to discovery, and you cannot allow yourself to falter.
Tywin’s gaze sharpens as he notes your momentary glance toward Arya. He doesn’t ask, but there’s an unspoken question in the air as his eyes linger on you, piercing and calculating.
With Arya now lingering in the background, Tywin returns his attention fully to you, his tone softening just enough to sound almost conversational. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe that loyalty alone will ensure victory? Or will it take more?”
He waits, and you know that beneath his words lies a deeper question—a challenge, a demand for allegiance that you cannot easily give. 
You swallow, feeling the weight of Tywin’s question linger in the room like a shadow. He watches you closely, his gaze dissecting every breath, every shift of your expression.
“Loyalty alone doesn’t ensure anything,” you answer finally, your voice carefully neutral. “It’s a weapon, a means to an end, but hardly the end itself.”
He inclines his head slightly, as if acknowledging your answer. “Precisely. Loyalty is useful—necessary, even—but it is not enough to build a legacy.” His tone is cool, distant, almost as if lecturing a pupil. “Power is what matters, Y/N. Power builds kingdoms, reshapes worlds, burns down houses that have stood for centuries.”
The words are exactly what you expected from him: cold, ruthless, and unyielding. Yet, as he continues, there’s an intensity beneath them, a deeper thread of something that you can’t quite name.
“Legacy,” he says, his voice lowering to a murmur. “What we leave behind is all that remains when we are gone. Our names, our accomplishments… these are what endure. Without them, we are dust, forgotten.”
You meet his gaze, holding it with a defiance you can’t quite suppress. “I thought you cared little for anything but victory, Tywin. For all this talk of legacy, I hadn’t pegged you for someone who worried about what others would remember.”
A shadow of a smirk flits across his face. “Perhaps you misunderstand me. I care little for how others perceive me—but I care greatly for what they cannot ignore. For the things that endure, long after I’m gone. It is not enough for House Lannister to survive. It must be unassailable.”
You nod slowly, absorbing his words, though a part of you bristles against his philosophy. He sees people as tools, pawns in his endless game. That’s all you are to him, a valuable piece he can wield to achieve his vision.
But then, he leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed on you with a sudden, burning intensity. “And that is why I’ve decided to take you as my wife.”
The words strike you like a blow, leaving you momentarily stunned, the breath stolen from your lungs. You blink, trying to process what he’s just said, wondering if you’ve misunderstood. But the certainty in his eyes tells you that he means every word.
“Your… wife?” The words come out in a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.
“Yes.” His tone is final, unyielding. “This union would serve both of us well. You would be restored to a place of power—protected, in the only way that matters.”
For a moment, you struggle for words, reeling from the unexpected declaration. You’d braced yourself for talk of alliances, of politics, even of Tywin’s usual calculated strategies—but this? This was something you hadn’t anticipated.
“Is that what you think I want?” you manage, forcing your voice to remain steady. “A position, a title, the protection of your name?”
He studies you, expression unchanging. “You may not realize it yet, Y/N, but your value is not solely in your bloodline. You are a weapon that could be sharpened, a tool with the potential to fortify both our legacies.”
Just then, a clatter erupts from the corner of the room as Arya accidentally knocks over a pitcher. The clay shatters, water spilling across the stone floor, jolting you back to reality. Arya’s face blanches, and she drops quickly to her knees, mumbling apologies as she gathers the broken pieces.
Tywin’s gaze flicks to her, his expression hardening. “Be more careful in the future, Ary,” he says, his tone sharp but controlled. “I don’t tolerate carelessness.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Arya replies, her voice low, strained, as she hurriedly cleans up the mess, hands moving with a practiced grace.
Your eyes dart to her for a heartbeat, concern flooding through you despite your best efforts to mask it. You don’t want to give her away, to betray her presence as anything other than a humble servant, but the fear lingers, sharp and gnawing. She’s too close to him, too vulnerable here under his scrutiny. Each moment she spends in this room feels like a risk, a danger you can’t control.
Tywin’s attention returns to you, his piercing gaze heavy with expectation. “As I was saying,” he continues smoothly, as if the interruption had barely registered, “this union would be… advantageous. For you, for me, for both of our houses.”
You take a steadying breath, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions roiling within you. “And what if I refuse?” you ask quietly, testing him, though you already suspect the answer.
Tywin’s expression hardens, his tone cold as steel. “I am not offering you a choice, Y/N. I am informing you of your future. It would be wise to accept it.”
A shiver runs through you, the weight of his words pressing down upon you. Arya continues cleaning in silence, her movements careful, but you feel the tension radiating from her. You force yourself to look away from her, to keep your focus on Tywin, unwilling to risk drawing his attention back to her.
Tywin’s eyes linger on you, cold and calculating, as he gestures to the guards stationed by the door. With a curt nod, he speaks in that same low, commanding tone, his gaze never wavering from yours.
“Escort Lady Y/N to her chambers,” he orders. “See to it that the servants prepare her properly.” He pauses, considering you for a moment, as if appraising your reaction. “She is to be made presentable.”
You feel the urge to rebel against his words, to refuse, to assert the independence he seems so intent on stripping from you. Yet, you know that any defiance here would only play into his hands. Tywin Lannister has you cornered, and he knows it. His intentions are clear—control, alliance, and power, as always. And now, he intends for you to become part of that legacy.
The guards approach, and as they move to escort you, you stand, casting a final glance at Arya. You want to say something, anything to reassure her, to let her know you will look out for her. But you cannot. Not here, not now. Her head remains down, eyes trained on the floor as she finishes cleaning the broken shards of the pitcher, and you feel a pang of fear for her, lodged deep in your chest. You force yourself to look away, to keep your expression neutral as the guards lead you from the room.
As you reach the doorway, Tywin’s voice calls out, halting you momentarily.
“Ary,” he says, turning his sharp gaze upon her, “go to the kitchens and tell them to prepare a dinner for two.”
Arya nods quickly, bowing her head as she mumbles a quick acknowledgment, then scurries out of the room, slipping past you without so much as a glance. You feel a twinge of relief at her quick escape, but the fear doesn’t ease fully as the guards guide you down the halls.
The walk to your chambers feels long and heavy, the walls of Harrenhal closing in around you, a sharp reminder of your captivity. As you near the chambers Tywin has commanded be made “presentable” for you, your mind races, grappling with the implications of his intentions. A marriage—his twisted idea of protection, of binding you to him, as if that could erase the past or reshape your allegiance.
The door to your chambers opens, and the servants immediately set to work, preparing clothes, linens, a bath—all of it designed to fulfill Tywin’s idea of what a “presentable” lady should be. You endure it silently, your mind still reeling from his words, the promise of a future that feels more like a cage.
And somewhere, perhaps in the very kitchens beneath you, Arya is carrying out his orders, a young wolf in disguise, dancing on the edge of discovery.
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faronmckenzie · 1 month ago
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No matter what happens in life, be good to people. Being good to others is a wonderful legacy to leave behind.
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englishsimmercc · 10 months ago
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Legacy Challenges if you're burnt out on the game
Sims in Bloom by a-sims-garden
Whimsy Stories by kateraed
Occult Legacy by asphodelmoon
Occult Legacy Graphics by kimbasprite
Solar System Legacy by GinovaSims
Star Sign Legacy by GinovaSims
Joy of Life Challenge by simelune
Hallmark Lore Legacy by WestCoastCowgirl
Bromance Legacy by maice
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svgifs · 2 months ago
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grrl-bubble-acid · 3 months ago
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musikexpress
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Star Wars Legends + text posts (part 4/?)
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simsbyyelhsa · 3 days ago
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Even though Akira has hit adulthood he still loves being silly with Jasper. They had kids later so she should be aging up pretty soon as well. Their marriage isnt perfect. Akira gets extremely jealous and takes it out on Jasper. She is always having to appease his fears.
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plumbieyt · 3 months ago
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Planting Plums Legacy Challenge by Plumbie and The Plum Family
Do you enjoy wholesome family gameplay, storytelling and the cosy side of The Sims 4? If so, the Planting Plums Legacy Challenge is for you.
My Inspiration For the Challenge:
My favourite aspect of The Sims is the family gameplay and all the stories that can arise from it. I love using the game as a vessel for telling stories, with that in mind, I thought I would create a legacy challenge built around all my favourite things in the game.
Each generation will have a focus on cosy and wholesome gameplay, primarily focusing on big families, but this doesn’t mean it will shy away from drama. It wouldn’t be realistic if I weren’t to include some sort of tension, so in each generation there will be conflicts but they will be mild and used in order to add depth to the family.
What Makes it Different:
One thing that separates this legacy challenge from the usual one is that I’ll be writing it one generation at a time. I’m doing this because I want to build this legacy with my community (the Plum family) on YouTube so that the Sims and stories will be a joint effort, making it a unique legacy due to the many inputs. It also means the story will grow organically, as it won’t necessarily be planned. This doesn’t mean you can’t take part in this legacy until we’ve reached the final generation because I’ve created the first generation, and we can play alongside as we grow the legacy.
The goal for this legacy challenge is to create a beautiful family that you’ll fall in love with and cherish all the members, even the troublesome ones. If this sounds like something you’d want to be part of, you can always comment, email or DM me your ideas for the legacy, as this is a community effort. So, let’s begin growing the family that will be known as the Plumtrees. 🌱🌸
General Rules & Packs Needed:
There won’t be any rules for this legacy challenge, as I want storytelling to be the focus point of it, but I’d recommend only using cheats if you absolutely need to use them, as sometimes, there is more fun and imagination in the limitations.
As of right now, you’ll need Cottage Living, Seasons and Get to Work. But if you don’t have these packs, feel free to adapt the challenge in your own way so that you can participate. Keep in mind the list of packs needed will grow bigger once the third generation is born.
Generation I: The Plum Seed
Some of your earliest memories were of running around your grandmother’s bakery, helping her bake all sorts of treats. You always said you’d take over her business when you were older, but sadly, when you were a child, she passed away, and your family couldn’t afford to keep the bakery.
As you became older, your passion shifted from baked goods to flowers. You found great comfort in creating all sorts of bouquets and writing down the different varieties of flowers, as they gave you the purpose you lost after your grandmother passed.
Growing up in a city meant nature was scarce; you spent time after school wandering around botanical gardens and finding wildflowers in the concrete, but this wasn’t enough, so the moment you became a young adult, you made the daring decision to move to an old cottage in Henford on Bagley.
Towering buildings and busy streets have been all you’ve ever known, so living in the sticks is going to take some getting used to, but as you stand on the doorstep of a new life, with baskets full of flowers, notebooks, baking ingredients and a dream to open a florist in the heart of the village, you feel that a slip in the mud won’t bother you a single bit.
Aspiration:
Best-selling Author: You want to write nonfiction books about your interest in flowers and bouquets to share your passion with the world.
Traits:
Love the Outdoors
Creative
Ambitious
Hobbies & Skills:
Baking
Gardening
Writing
Career:
Florist & Author: You own a florist business and sell your books.
To-Do's:
Move into a small cottage (it can be in any world, but preferably Henford or a countryside world)
Build from scratch a florist shop
Reach level 10 of the flower-arranging skill
Grow every type of flower in the game (or every flower in your game. For example, if you are missing a pack with a certain flower in it, you don't need to buy the pack just to grow that flower)
Reach level 5 of the writing skill
Write and publish 5 non-fiction books
Complete errands
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pratchettquotes · 11 months ago
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There'll come a time when it'll all be clear, Sweeper had said. A perfect moment.
The occupants of these graves had died for something. In the sunset glow, in the rising of the moon, in the taste of the cigar, in the warmth that comes from sheer exhaustion, Vimes saw it.
History finds a way. The nature of events changed, but the nature of the dead had not. It had been a mean, shameful little fight that ended them, a flyspecked footnote of history, but they hadn't been mean or shameful men. They hadn't run, and they could have run with honor. They'd stayed, and he wondered if the path had seemed as clear to them as it did to him now. They'd stayed not because they wanted to be heroes, but because they chose to think of it as their job, and it was in front of them--
"I'll be off then, sir," said Reg, shouldering his shovel. He seemed a long way away. "Sir?"
"Yeah, right. Right, Reg. Thank you," mumbled Vimes, and in the pink glow of the moment watched the corporal march down the darkening path and out into the city.
John Keel, Billy Wiglet, Horace Nancyball, Dai Dickins, Cecil "Snouty" Clapman, Ned Coates, and, technically, Reg Shoe. Probably there were no more than twenty people in the city now who knew all the names, because there were no statues, no monuments, nothing written down anywhere. You had to have been there.
He felt privileged to have been there twice.
Terry Pratchett, Night Watch
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eastwardnest271 · 3 months ago
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My boss going insane lmaoo /ref
TW:FLASHY BRIGHT COLOURS!!!
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Bro's tryna regain control of his mind😭😭😭
Anyway uhh this is my new TikTok pfp welcome skibidi toilet (2020 vibes? That's the point)
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