#mold gate design

[synchodai]

*reading fics where Gortash impregnates a character* i know this is to satisfy a breeding kink, but man, i think this man 100% forces his partners to have abortions. He makes so many donations to Baldurian Planned Parenthood, not because he cares, but because he is 50% of their clientele

[3dcaddesignservice]

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[beesolively]

Contemporary Living Room Trendy living room library photo

[servantofthefates]

My house is alive. And I do not mean figuratively.

I mean it has a mind of its own. 

My house is mine. I designed the layout, I watched it get built, I decorated it. From the size of the front door to the paint color palette… from the fabric of the sofa to the style of the photo frames… everything was my decision. It’s as mine as mine gets.

So the moment I introduced myself to it, it started talking back.

We have a courtyard full of trees and plants, so there’s a healthy amount of bugs outside, which sometimes get in when the front door is open. I hate that. I hate that very much.

So I told my house to never let those intruders in. The next day, without having to spray anything, I saw several dead bugs on the floor. I swept them up. And never again did I see anything flying or crawling around the house.

Another time, I had a plumbing issue. My bidet wouldn’t stop running, and the bathtub wouldn’t drain completely. 

I told my house how much I hate having to let maintenance workers in, because they often leave a mess, which I have to spend hours sanitizing afterwards. I asked my house if it could help me avoid this somehow.

In just about five seconds, the bidet stopped running, and the bathtub fully drained.

Over the holidays, a relative came over for dinner. Having eaten so much, she felt sluggish and asked if she could sleep over. Now I don’t really like this relative. I included her in the guest list as an act of Christmas kindness, but sleeping over? That’s too much.

While I was thinking of how to reject her request, the power went out. And the moment she left the gate, the electricity came back on. I asked the neighbors about it later on, and they said their power was on the whole night.

Another time, I lost the remote control to my living room air conditioner. Which was impossible. It’s always in the same place, and I was alone that whole time.

While looking for it everywhere, I ended up opening a drawer I never use. In it I found white mold, which likely developed during the few months I lived abroad, leaving that part of the house susceptible to humidity. I’ve since taken care of the problem.

Right after I discovered the mold, I found the missing remote control right there on top of my coffee table. Where it always is. Where I couldn’t have missed it.

My house is one of those things that make me what I am — a traditional witch, despite how modern my life is. It reminds me that even though my ancestors wouldn’t recognize many parts of my craft, I remain their child. Their blood is within me, ready to awake when required.

[angelremnants]

HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson

CHAPTER ONE,⠀The Price of Pride

chapter summary : In the first installment of our ever-tangled tale, we find both our fair protagonist and the mischievous prince at the crossroads of deception and ambition. As deals are struck and masks are donned, dear readers, be warned that not all that glitters is gold, and not every promise comes without a price.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : Mature (16+), implied oral gratification (male receiving), emotional turmoil, light violence, referenced/implied minor characters' death, mind games, mild language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 6.7k

author's notes : Here is the first chapter! I'm honestly so hyped to start writing for this series, but unfortunately I still have to pass my midterms, so the second part might not come as soon as this one.

For a referential point in this story, 1125 years old in Asgardian years is the equivalent of being 18, and 1315 years old would be being 21.

(ao3 version)

⠀

⠀

The road was a serpent of stone and shadow that wound through the untamed countryside beyond the capital's reach. It curled between towering pines with aged branches grasping at the sky and their gnarled roots engulfing the ground below. The air was humid with the promise of rain, dense with the aroma of fir and wet soil, and as the rider moved forward, the storm gathered on earnest—low thundering rumbling in the distance, acting as suggestive caution of his arrival rather than a danger.

No one traveled this road without purpose.

He didn't need a map to know where it led. He had unfortunately been there before, but the years between visits had thinned them out until they scarcely existed at all. However, the pathway remained undisturbed through and through, like the passage of time hadn't dare to touch it.

The first peek of the estate was a sensation rather than a sight—an eerie change in the surroundings, as the sought-after structure then appeared from the increasing mist, like a specter out of the gloom.

A castle of black stone, wreathed in foliage and partially swallowed by the encroaching wood. It stood apart from the rest of the world, unfettered by court or crown regulations, its mere presence a tacit defiance. At the threshold, the gates were ajar, twisted iron molded into fascinating designs, as if warning invaders of what could lay within. There were no guards, no showcasing of banners or sigils indicating its allegiance. 

The traveler did not slow down. His patience had run thin even before he reached the gates, as seen by the continual readjusting of his gorgeous golden hair, withering in the bleak atmosphere. The journey had been quite lengthy, but not as long as the years of silence that had separated him from the owner of this location.

He dismounted his stallion with practiced grace, and despite the bold statement of his presence, the house did not greet him. There were no servants or movement at the windows—only the uncanny serenity that had come to define this place of residence. His boots sank onto the damp earth, slippery from the distant rain, but he ignored the unease. After all, he had not come here for comfort.

Only when he approached the entry did the doors part open, revealing a figure framed by the sallow luminosity of candlelight. The head butler stood by, as immovable as the granite around him.

"Your Highness," Skurge greeted, mitigating the sound of hesitant recognition. "My master is not expecting you."

Thor exhaled through his nose, his frustration like a slow-burning ember. "I will see him regardless."

The retired warrior did not flinch. "My lord—"

"Enough," The prince cut him off, brooking no argument as he stepped past him without dispute.

Skurge sighed softly but did not stop him. It was an old battle that they had fought numerous times before. He had long since realized that denying entry to Thor was a futile attempt. His weary and knowing stare stayed set on the royal attendant as they both marched farther inside the building.

The stronghold's splendor consumed him whole. Velvet draped like falling dusk over the high-arched windows, reducing the outside world to nothing but a memory. Sconces emitted a warm glow that danced across the dark marble and mahogany, catching on the ornate paintings and carvings of mythical beasts, gods and beings. The smell in the room was laden with incense and wine, almost tied into the very foundation of the building. 

This was not a house of duty. It was a house of indulgence.

With each step, he felt the burden of his task on his shoulders. He had not come for a visit—rather, it was an intrusion. He did not belong here, and neither did his brother.

Skurge finally came to a halt in front of a hefty wooden door that, like the manor, appeared to preserve mysteries within its frame.

"He is inside," the housekeeper quietly announced in a way that hinted that he had witnessed this confrontation countless times already. The blond did not respond, simply pushing the door open, the hinges creaking with an aloofness that matched his own.

And immediately regretted it.

The air within was fragrant with an intoxicatingly faint mix of floral and musky. The room was barely illuminated, only emphasazing on the plush bedding and velvet pillows. A fire crept lazily into the hearth, pouring its warmth over tangled limbs, silk-strewn furnishings, and a scene of pleasure the guest did not want to see.

And in the heart of it all—a man clothed in carefree grace, with dark locks ruffled and keen green eyes lifting up to lazily gaze toward the door. A woman knelt before him, her head lowered and her hands resting on his thighs in an act that left little to the imagination.

Thor recoiled, his expression twisting in disgust. “By the Norns—”

Unconcerned, the man turned his head, peering at him with twisted amusement that showed in a smirk so languid. It was clear that the interruption did not even faze him.

"Ah, brother," Loki drawled in a honey-smoothed voice, his eyes glittering with delight. "What a nice surprise. Are you coming to join us?”

Thor glared at him. "Seize your rascality and compose yourself."

The dark prince, on the other hand, was never content with silent compliance. His lips curved, teasing at the edges, mocking innocence. With a languid sweep of his fingers, he waved the woman away.

"Go on, pet," he murmured in a deeper undertone. His fingers knotted in the woman's hair, allowing him to easily lift her head. "We will resume our—" his eyes flicked towards his brother, "—conversation later."

The courtesan pouted and slipped away with a lingering brush of fingers over his knee, her silhouette disappearing through the softly shut door that sealed them in.

Loki groaned and stretched like a cat roused from sleep. He stood with a worrying ease, completely unhurried as he fixed the loose buttons on his tunic. "You've become such a bore," he mused, rolling his shoulders, mockingly disappointed. "Had you walked in centuries ago, you might have actually been inclined to join me."

Thor's glare darkened. "And yet you wonder why our father sees you as a disgrace."

Loki smiled in a sluggish, knowledgeable leer. "Oh, I no longer wonder."

He smoothed down his sleeves and carefully adjusted the cuffs before moving toward the magnificent cabinet on the wall. He took out a crystal decanter of mead, the amber liquid reflecting in the firelight as he poured himself a large drink. 

Not once did he glance in Thor’s direction. He never treated him with the same courtesy. Instead, he raised the cup to his lips and took a leisurely, savoring sip, seemingly not caring about the tension hanging between them. Then, only after swallowing did he speak.

"Now," he voiced, swirling the mead in his glass, his eyes bright with laughter. "Tell me, dear brother, what I owe the pleasure to. Another warning? A lecture, perhaps?" He inclined his head, pretending attention. "Do you intend to recount my many misdeeds, as if I am not already aware?"

His brother exhaled sharply to steady himself. "Not this time. I came for another reason."

Loki arched his brow. "Do tell."

Thor's fingers curled along his sides. He had expected resistance, not such carelessness. This was not the brother he had previously known. The brother who had formerly measured every step with care and sought praise no longer stood before him. In his place stood a creature of indulgence and disobedience, a terrifying figure honed and shaped by unwarranted exile.

But for all his decadence, Loki had never been a fool.

“You are to return to the palace.”

The host’s sneer remained constant, although the light behind his eyes flickered for a brief moment. A brief, almost inconspicuous shift.

He laughed, bellowed even.

Thor tightened his grasp on Mjölnir, the hammer's familiar weight both reassuring and frightening in his hand. His knuckles turned white, and the veins in his arm tightened in an effort to contain his mounting rage. This was not the reunion he had hoped for—but, truth be told, he hadn't really expected anything else from his brother.

"Your presence has been requested at the court," he insisted, each word bearing the heft of obligation and haste. "It is time."

Across the room, Loki's smile contorted sardonically. With a sinuous flick, he sent the last drop of mead spiraling from his cup, allowing it to fade into the shadows as he laid the vessel down with exaggerated disregard. 

"Requested my presence?" he repeated. "How quaint. Let me guess, should I expect greater condemnation? Another lecture on my failings?" He leaned back in his chair, the scowl on his lips growing greater in depth. "Is that why you rode all the way here? To offer the customary refrain?" His cold, mocking gaze never left Thor's, challenging him to prove him wrong.

"This isn't another lecture on your reckless behavior," the crown prince bargained, exasperated but determined. "This is about your title."

At those words, the raven-haired stiffened, his eyes flashing with incredulity. “The one you so kindly withheld because of my exile, you mean? The one I was deemed too… troublesome to receive, while you paraded your birthright before all of Asgard?” His voice was sharp as a drawn blade, every syllable dripping with scorn. “I’m past the age of 1125, you know that well enough. It’s too late to rewind time and add the fanfare and ceremony you so cherish. I have no need of it.”

Thor's chest clenched at his cruel words, but he was undeterred. He needed to make him see reason, if only for a moment. "It's not just that," he ground out, the tension in his voice palpable. "It's about what our father intends to do, and you—"

“Your father,” Loki spat, as though the very qualification felt like venom on his tongue. “Not ours. Do not speak of him as if he ever cared about me."

Thor's mouth dried up, and he couldn't help but feel a stab of remorse. But there was no time to dwell on it now. “It’s not just the title, Loki. It’s... a deal.” his voice dropped. “Father wants to strike a deal with you.”

For a long moment, the second prince regarded his elder with amused disbelief that failed to mask his calculating gaze. “A deal?” he echoed. “And what, pray tell, could he possibly offer that would capture my interest at this late hour?”

Thor’s hand twitched by his side as he fought against the torrent of words threatening to overwhelm him. Inwardly, he cursed the inevitable vulnerability that came with speaking the truth.

“It’s about the will.”

Time seemed to stand still at the statements. Loki ceased to move as though struck by an invisible force. It was a genuine reaction, with his eyes reflecting an image of the youngster he once was. But the shock passed as fast as it arrived, replaced by the gravelly resolve of a man who had long forsaken hope. "The will is no longer of my interest," Loki flatly responded. "Why should I care for his proposal now?"

“I never thought you would, Loki.” The blonde exhaled slowly. “I think you should hear him out. Do it at least this once, and I promise we’ll leave you free of these constant intrusions.”

Loki’s gaze bore into his, seeking any flicker of deceit or ulterior motive. Finding none, an unspoken understanding passed between them—a fragile bridge over a chasm of past grievances and present imperatives.

“Fine,” he agreed at last, a trace of genuine curiosity mingling with his ever-present defiance. “I’ll hear him out. But do not mistake my interest for hope.”

Thor’s weary yet steadfast eyes met his brother’s with a silent promise. “I never would.” 

His eyes traced every disorganized detail of Loki's appearance, which was far from the polished princeling he had previously grew up with. His dark hair fell in wild, tangled cascades around his face, and his once impeccable clothes hung in crumpled disarray, as if burdened by a sorrow too great to be contained.

"You look as though you've abandoned even the last shred of dignity," Thor indicated sorrowfully, the words flowing out before he could catch them. "I'd wager she would be disappointed if she were still here to witness this."

He knew his words shattered the fragile peace, and he promptly regretted uttering them, knowing all too well the tragic history that laid behind this pitiful façade.

In an instant, Loki's eyes flared with terrible enmity. He rose from his chair with the predatory elegance of a cornered animal and rushed toward the envoy. In one swift action, the dark prince grabbed his arm, his hold alluding to an implicit warning built over years of suffering and indolence

"Do not speak so idly," he growled alarmingly, in the fashion of a wintry wind. His fingers sank sharply into Thor's flesh. "You would do well not to invoke her again—especially when you know nothing of what transpired."

The blonde stiffened under his grasp, his stare locking with his in a quiet exchange rich with old wounds and buried truths. For a long, tense moment, they stood there—two souls bound together by blood and remorse, their shared history a shaky bridge over a chasm of pain.

Loki finally let go of him, moving back with a controlled calm that concealed his smoldering despair. "We'll go to the palace tomorrow," he stated calmly and dismissively. "Until then, see to it that Skurge assigns you a place for the night. And send the maiden back inside."

Thor halted, but he knew better than to press on. His brother's barriers were too high, and his resistance was too strong. "Understood," he replied, the resignation in his voice combined with the residual pain of loss. "I'll make the arrangements."

He paused only briefly before turning and heading out of the bedroom, his footsteps retreating down the corridor. The door closed behind him with a faint, decisive click, leaving Loki to his own devices.

The silence that followed felt like a heavy blanket pressing from all sides, saturating the entire space with concealed facts. The shunned prince resided stationary, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon visible through the small window panels. Outside, the night stretched out in a never-ending palette filled with ambiguity and impending possibilities. His thoughts were entwined in knots—of the palace, of his contested title, of the Allfather's aspirations, and of the storm that threatened to come tomorrow.

⠀

⠀

The hippodrome was saturated with incense, a perfumed fog that curled through the towering hall and melded with hushed exchanges and muffled sobs. Draped in somber shades of black and violet, the grand chamber exceptionally bore the sigil of House of Sigvard in golden embroidery upon the banners that swung gently from the pillars. It was an extravagant farewell, one meant for a nobleman of once-great stature, though the weight of his transgressions loomed like a silent specter over the gathered mourners.

You stood at the center of it all, clad in mourning robes of midnight silk, your hands gracefully clasped before you in a practiced pose of grief. Condolences flowed in a delicate stream of soft, sorrowful words from nobles who pitied you and empty gestures from those who secretly rejoiced in the slow and continuous decay of your house’s legacy.

“He was a man of duty,” one of your uncle’s acquaintances lamented barely audibly above the solemn dirge.

“A great loss,” another added with feigned regret.

You nodded, lips pressed into a trembling smile as your eyes shimmered with unshed tears that caught the flicker of candlelight. When the final rites were called, the assembled crowd parted with solemn efficiency, leaving you alone before his final resting place—your last remaining close kin. The casket laid upon a raised dais, framed by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows upon its polished wood, awaiting its fate to be consumed by flame.

Each step you took toward it was in sync with the steady rhythm of your breath. At its edge, you bent down, letting your fingertips trace the smooth grain of the wood as though you sought to commit every ridge and curve to memory. Leaning close, you let your lips ghost near his ear, your voice barely more than a whisper in the hush of the hall.

"May your next life be as wretched as this one was undeserved."

Then, with a tenderness that belied the venom in your words, you pressed a soft kiss to his cold forehead—a farewell infused with a bitterness far removed from true grief.

You straightened with grace before turning and rejoining the front lines, harboring a flawless mask of quiet devastation. Behind you, the ceremonial flames were kindled, and soon the fire took hold. A collective, solemn gasp rippled through the assembly as the casket was engulfed, the scent of burning incense giving way to a harsher, acrid tang that stung the senses.

Tears traced glistening paths down your cheeks as you watched the funeral pyre, each flicker of flame reflecting memories of a once-honorable past. For a long and silent juncture, you remained rooted to the spot, witnessing the send-off until the last embers shuddered and died.

The guests began to gradually drift away in final bows and a mumblage of sympathies fading into the chill of the night, until at last only you and your company remained in the desolate quiet of the burial grounds.

A soft cough shattered the welcomed stillness. “My lady?”

You turned around and revealed your once-tear-stained face being carefully composed, with every trace of feigned grief meticulously erased.

“Elva, please fetch me a handkerchief,” you declared, your voice steady and low. “And go ready the carriage.”

Your ever-faithful maid complied without hesitation, retrieving a pristine silk tissue and placing it gently into your outstretched palm. You brought it to your lips first, dabbing them before using it to carefully wipe your face.

Elva’s eyes widened momentarily. “My lady, why did you—” she began, then faltered, her voice a mere whisper. “Why your lips?”

You folded the handkerchief in a neat fold, tucking it away in your palm like a secret too precious for the light.

"Well, I shouldn't afford to leave noxious substances so carelessly on my lips now, should I?” you lightly chipped, tilting your head in private delight. 

You approached one of the liberated flames from the funeral pyre’s dying glow and threw unceremoniously the ruined fabric. The hanked reacted immediately to the contact—an almost unnoticeable sizzle resounded as its edge curled with unnatural speed into ash, erasing any trace of its presence.

Elva’s lips parted in realization as if to offer further counsel, but no words came—only a respectful silence as she bowed her head and hastened toward the waiting carriage. You stepped after her at an unhurried pace, the ghost of your smirk lingering like a promise of the plans yet to be set in motion.

The carriage door closed with a firm click, sealing the both of you inside the dimly lit interior. Without hesitation, you surged for the nearest window and pulled down its heavy velvet curtain, ensuring that no fragment of the outside world might enter on your personal sanctuary. The cabin was warm and quiet, acting as a cocoon where covert revelations might be shared without the jeopardy of inquisitive ears. You carefully secured each window one by one, an exacting process that the brunette quietly observed, her gloved hands lying demurely in her lap.

Only when the last curtain was drawn did you nestle into the soft seat. You exhaled deeply, as if relieving the pressure of a lifetime in one long, slow breath. Outside, the repetitive clatter of hooves against cobblestone blended with the night's silence. Through a narrow rip in the fabric, you watched the vast sacred building fade into darkness, a mere outline absorbed by the small municipality's tortuous highways.

After a long, reflective interval, Elva's kind voice shattered the quiet. "What are you going to do now, my lady? Seeing that you're free?"

You let out a deep, almost languid sigh, one of odd comfort rather than grief. "I've already begun," you remarked. "The furniture is being sold, piece by piece, and most of the staff have been let go."

Elva's posture tensed as she blinked, recognition dawning in her eyes. "Then that would mean..."

Your lips curled with a faint, knowing smile. "Yes, you have been promoted to the position of head maid."

After a minute of calm acceptance, Elva nodded softly. "That should secure our future, along with the savings you've so discreetly accumulated," she answered nervously. "It was fortunate that your uncle was ill enough in his final years to entrust you with managing the household's resources."

“Fortunate indeed,” you mused, a wry note lacing your words. “Though I doubt he ever meant for me to wield it to my own advantage.”

Elva fell silent for a heartbeat before asking with an almost timid curiosity, “Why not sell the estate as well?”

A distant chuckle escaped you, devoid of genuine mirth. "That house is the only reminder of my childhood. I spent my happiest days there," you mused, your mind drifting as memories surfaced. "I am sure you remember the swing that my father built for me among those old pear trees. I can still recall my mother's standing nearby in case I fell. In the end, I had to regrettably sell it."

Your maid regarded you with a blend of understanding and pity, but offered no further words.

You exhaled through your nose, the corners of your mouth softening into a wistful line. “No matter. I’m certain no one would dare engage in dealings with an estate burdened by such a dismal reputation.”

A profound inertia fell between you, interrupted only when Elva spoke once more. "Did you even sell the portraits?"

You shifted your sight to the curtained window, your face unreadable in the flickering shades. "I couldn't," you confessed with a rare vulnerability. "Some things... are too cherished to be relinquished to strangers."

The rest of the route was spent in thoughtful silence, with the city gradually disappearing as the vehicle transported you home. Finally, the estate's imposing gates emerged in the pale moonlight, and the horses halted, the carriage slowly grinding to an end.

As you reached for the door handle, Elva shifted uncomfortably. “You have no guardian now, my lady,” she reminded you in a hushed tone. “And you remain a bachelorette, at that. How do you intend to proceed?”

Stepping out into the cool air, you smoothed the folds of your mourning dress and turned to face her. “How else?” you replied, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth as clear ambition sparkling in your eyes. 

“I’m going to marry rich. Obviously.”

⠀

⠀

The streets of Asgard have never felt colder as they did tonight. The pavement, slippery with twilight mist, glistened beneath your measured tread and lead you through a region of the city you used to avoid. Lanterns sputtered in the heavy darkness, their meager radiance generating wavering shadows that danced maliciously at the borders of your view. This was not the Asgard you remembered—it was bright, resplendent, and full of pomp and color. No, this was the underbelly of a fading realm, where houses' facades crumbled like brittle paper and wealth remained a faraway dream.

You walked with careful intention, each step resounding on the damp cobblestones. In the back of your mind, Elva's gentle query from yesterday's evening lingered. 

"My lady, why suddenly... this wish?" Her worry was evident, a compassionate spark in the midst of your anguish, when you announced your intention to enter the marriage market. It was a decision made out of necessity, not whim, and one that became increasingly urgent with each passing day.

She was positive that you, of all people, would never debase yourself by engaging in such a banal and ignoble transaction. But surely she was aware of your golden cage, of the days spent imprisoned in the decaying confines of your family's home where sycophantic suitors bargained for your attention as if it were a valuable commodity. Pathetic men of low ranks and even simple commoners, dressed in the finest of what they could afford and bursting with fake admiration, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. They were eager, preening before you as if you were the sun that centered their entire world.

Once, you were untouchable.

Your household name had echoed through every banquet hall and noble ceremony, a jewel in the illustrious diadem of House Sigvard. As the daughter of one of Asgard's most powerful families, you were admired for your grace, brilliance, and wit. You had smoothly presided over your mother's salon, the centerpiece of high society, where the elite eagerly awaited your insights on courtly issues, the latest political intrigues, and the scandalous whispers of the realm. Every word you spoke was valuable as gold.

You'd been at the top.

And what of now? You walked these dour alleys like a phantom of your previous self. Your uncle's reckless expenditures had consumed the once-glorious fortune, leaving nothing but sallow ruins. Gambling. The wretched man threw away everything—your family's name, your inheritance, and the future you had once hoped for. When the payments came due, he callously sold your numerous assets, which included your beloved mother's salon, to satisfy his creditors' voracious appetite. You could still picture it vividly in your mind, the day the "sold" sign was hammered into the front yard, along with the harsh laughing of vultures as they swept away the final vestiges of your inheritance.

It was an insult you could never forgive.

That bastard. 

You clutched your fists as a stringent laugh from your lips and echoed off in the lengthy road. "Idiotic rule," you mumbled beneath your breath as you thought of the oppressive law requiring noblewomen to stay under the custody of their male relatives. Such a horrible charade. 

Fortunately, you had no brother to protect you, no distant cousin prepared to challenge the status quo. The few remaining relatives were either too old or already comfortably ensconced with their own fortunes to give a damn. Had your name retained its former glory, they would have fought like starving lions to claim the scraps of you and your estate.

The edifice in front of you resembled an inn at best, its stone walls weathered and pitted from the unrelenting passage of time and neglect. A sprinkling of weakly reflective windows on the higher floors glowed like feeble stars, giving only the sensation of a long-forgotten place, a hollow echo of a purpose that had once existed.

You pushed open the hefty door and walked inside. The smell stale ale, charred wood, and a faint scent of something metallic mixed in a suffocating haze of smoke straightaway assaulted your nostrils. A faint drone of conversations, accented by the odd clink of chipped glass, emanated from the few figures slumped over tattered tables. It was a dramatic contrast to the sumptuous salons of the past, where laughing sounded like music and every word was dressed in polished beauty.

This decomposing hideaway was your destination—a place where answers may be found among the private matters of people who thrived in the dark. Your torn cloak, nevertheless rich in color, was your only protection against inquisitive scrutiny. Here, you appreciated the anonymity it afforded. Being a faceless, nameless wanderer in these forsaken streets was a small comfort in that abandoned world.

You walked to the far end of the room, where a weathered wooden bar stood under the careful eye of a broad-shouldered bartender. As you neared, his face flickered up, marked with the lines of long nights of hard work. You feigned to fix your cloak, taking care not to reveal your features.

"Anything I can get for you?" he asked in a gravelly tone.

You paused before conspiraciously leaning in. "A glass of the Red Eel," you whispered softly, allowing the words to install themselves.

The bartender's hands stopped mid-polish, his eyes narrowing as a spark of recognition flared inside them.

"The bathroom is two rooms down the corridor, on the left. Be quick," he nodded towards the aisle.

A contented smile traced on your lips. "Thank you," you answered calmly before leaving the bar behind. You crept into the small corridor, the inn's muted sounds fading into a distant cacophony. You soon discovered the small door that went to the so-called bathroom, enclosed in peeling wallpaper and illuminated by a single, flickering light overhead.

You shut the door after you, allowing yourself a moment of calm satisfaction. The excitement of being so near your goal sent shivers down your spine—a delicate blend of yearning for rebirth and desperate hope.

You stepped into the narrow room, where the dim glow of a solitary candle revealed a large desk set in the center of an alcove at the far end of the room. The desk was sinister, made from dark oak and marred by age. Its surface was crowded with parchment scraps, old books, and assorted trinkets, all of which had been neglected to accumulate dust. Behind the desk stood a gaunt man with eyes like chipped flint, his face shrouded by the half-light. 

"What brings a stranger to our door?"

You straightened, readying yourself for the next battle of wills to come. "My intentions should be obvious," you coolly replied. "After all, this is the most renowned informational guild in the city—a sanctuary of secrets for those who truly need them."

He chuckled, a dry sound that echoes in the gloom. "Indeed. But we do not entertain any clients who come so freely." He gestured for you to approach the desk with an appraising stare and greedy eyes shining through the dark.

You obeyed without hesitation, your footsteps echoing faintly as you made your way toward him. "Precisely because I know that, I am here," you asserted, producing your family crest from within the folds of your garment and placed the emblem on the scarred surface of the desk.

The man's eyes widened as he inspected the proud and intricate design bearing the insignia. A slow, humorless laugh escapes him. "What a joke, for the House of Sigvard falling so low to be seen here," he scoffs. "The Grand Marshal's legacy has truly reached the very depths of Hel. 

He shook his head as if almost in disbelief. “Tell me, Sigvarddóttir, why should we even be interested in your demand when you hail from a house that now holds little value?"

Your gaze sharpened and you remained still, not fliching at his attempt to undermine—you knew better than to let his words wound you. "Because, as you yourself noted, House of Sigvard was a bastion of prestige for centuries until it fell into unworthy hands," you countered. "I am of the blood of that esteemed lineage, the direct descendant of an union between the most praised ex-lady in waiting for the Allmother herself as well as one of the most strategic and intelligent war scholars our realm has been blessed with. Naturally, I have inherited those qualities."

The man arched an eyebrow, his smile turning wry. "Inherited, perhaps," he conceded. "But let us not forget the disgrace your house was sealed with when your father was accused of treason and of leaking the kingdom's most confidential secrets. A legacy tarnished beyond repair."

The informant looked at you with narrowed eyes, feeling that beneath your calculated façade lurked a secret weight far larger than desperation. You decided to comply and prove his hunch was right by reaching within the folds of your cloak and pulling out a purse. Its contents clinked softly in an exquisite symphony of gold coins and tiny gems, each one a relic of the richness that once established your ancestry. You carefully opened the pouch, allowing the gold and stones to stream over the desk's scarred surface.

But it was not all.

Added to the funding, you set a little book sheathed in a leather cover that had split with age. Marked on its pages were precise notes written in your own hand, a record of secrets acquired over years of patient observation. This book was your weapon, the result of decades spent documenting the illegal activities of people who had betrayed your family. You had kept it buried for fear of the consequences of revealing it, but now was the moment to wield its terrible truth.

The man's gaze shifted between the bag and the book, his interest evidently piqued.

"I'm positive," you stated, "that my father was framed. And I can prove it—with time, money and power." You watched his lips move to speak, but you lifted your hand to silence him. "But for now, what matters is this." You tapped the book lightly. "In these pages are the names of every shady noble my uncle gambled with—the very ones who collaborated with him to dishonor my family's reputation. Their schemes, deceptions, and cover-ups. These are the architects of House of Sigvard's demise."

You leaned forward, your eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. "I know that your guild despises the crown's myriad laws. They flaunt their wealth and defy every decree. Releasing this information, especially when most concerns imperialist nobles, would shake high society to its very core. And you know it."

A heated silence ensued, laden with the promise of upheaval. The man then let forth a rich, hearty laugh stirring the dust in the dim light.

"By the Allfather," he vociferated in both admiration and menace. "You really are the daughter of Sigvard and Regna, to speak so boldly." His eyes glittered in a blend of curiosity and a tinge of an unsettling look. "Very well, girl. Tell me, what do you want from us?”

You inhaled quietly to calm your nerves, keeping your grip protectively curled around the purse and the book. The man's dark gaze pierced into you, anticipating your next words and the price you would set.

"I want your help," you bid carefully. "I will gradually pay you in coins and reveal names when I'll come to seek your assistance. Presently, I request your aid regarding two issues."

His eyes glinted with interest, prompting you to deliver the next words with purpose and careful arrangement.

"Firstly, I want you to remove the allegations and evidence of tax evasion that my uncle have tarnished my house's reputation with. Clear my reputation in the eyes of the crown, so that the gossip can stop." You paused, letting the weight of the request settle between you. 

"I will also need a list of future bachelors. I need the names of individuals who are wealthy, of impeccable stature, and untainted by nefarious relationships. These individuals must have enough caliber to be able to keep my distant relatives at bay should they seek to claim what I am and what I own, and they have to allow me to develop sa business of my own by using their riches and influence should it be necessary."

The candle's flame trembled in the silence of the room, its feeble glow stretching enough to let you perceive the man reclining in his dilapidated chair that protested with every tiny movement. 

“Very well,” he pronounced resolutely, as if the verdict had been sealed in his mind long before the words escaped his lips. “You will receive a pigeon carrier during the following few days to deliver the information you have requested. Regarding the remainder of your requests, I will make every effort to assist you as soon as you deem it necessary. You have my word.”

A slow nod was your only reply, as the gravity of the agreement pressed upon you like a stone sinking in dark water. With the deal inked in the silent contract between your eyes, you reached for the small, leather-bound book that lay between you. The book’s spine creaked in protest as you opened it, your fingertips caressing its jaundiced pages and you swiftly tore out a single page.

The crisp sound of paper severing its bond with the rest of the book was startling in the impendation, a punctuation to the gravity of the occasion. You laid the page  before him, bearing a list of names—each scrawled letter a testament to your resolve and the fate of those who had wronged you.

“Here,” you piped, betraying nothing of the tumult that churned beneath the surface. “Consider this a preview. This will only be the beginning.” Your fingertips brushed the cool edge of the parchment as you withdrew your hand.

His searching eyes roamed the list, a subtle spark of malevolent glee igniting in their depths. No words were needed, the silent acknowledgment passed between you both was enough. You then released the contents of your pouch, of which jangled softly as you set it beside the page. 

“As promised,” you declared, your tone final. You cast one last glance at the parchment and the pouch—symbols of heritage and leap of faith intertwined—and with a hasty resolve, you retrieved the crest. 

You finally took your departure, your boots tapping against the floor as you advanced. Your hand reached for the cold iron handle, but before you could definitely leave, his voice halted you once more.

“Sigvarddóttir,” he called with curious intrigue. “One last question before you leave.”

You paused, your eyes meeting his as you tilted your head in quiet expectation. “What is it?”

“If you had to represent yourself, how would you do it?”

The question hung between you like a delicate wisp of perfume. For a short stretch of time, you considered its layers, the hidden meanings swirling like autumn leaves caught in a gentle wind. “I suppose you have your own reasons for asking,” you began, a note of uncertainty in your tone. 

“As for how I would present myself... the answer is, in truth, simple.” Your eyes fell to the family crest, seeping cold from the metal in your hand. "I will always bear the signature of my house with pride, regardless of the circumstance. I wear its history, its strength, and even its failures upon my shoulders, and it will forever define who I am at core, along with how I choose to depict myself hereafter.”

A moment passed before the man’s lips twitched into a small, wry smile. “A proud answer indeed,” he concluded thoughtfully in a small appraisal. 

With that, you turned once more toward the door and without a backward glance, you pushed open the door and stepped into the dim corridor beyond, your mind already racing with the preparation of your next move to play.

Inside the room, the man’s attention returned to the page, his fingers tracing over the names with abnormal care. A soft chuckle escaped him as he murmured, almost to himself, “Interesting... Very interesting.”

His form began to blur and shift. The harsh, angular features softened, the masculine lines giving way to the delicate grace of a woman’s visage. In a seamless transformation, the dark, tattered garments were replaced by a gown of deep, earthen green. The fabric flowed around her lithe frame, rich in texture and hue as if woven from the forest’s heart. Golden blonde hair tumbled in gentle waves around her now expressive face that combined ethereal beauty with a spark of calculated brilliance.

She once again fixed her gaze upon the names on the page, her delicate fingers skimming over the inked list as her eyes glinted with a newfound admiration. “If my calculations are correct,” she said softly, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “this will be a fine choice as an ally. For both of us.”

Her eyes shone with the thrill of the unfolding game, a quiet laugh escaping as she already started to plot the pace to adopt in this upcoming intricate dance of fate. “Yes,” she affirmed to herself, “this will be most interesting indeed.”

⠀

⠀

ending notes : To explain the corrosive part in the burial, my understanding is that in Asgardian funerals, the fire is supposed to slowly process the body to thoroughly purify it. Her accelerating the burning would mean disrupting the ritual and therefore meddle with his passing. Let me know your thoughts about the series so far, comments and interactions are very welcomed ! <3

⠀

PROLOGUE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER ONE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER TWO.

see more His For The Season related works.

Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

⠀⠀

dividers ©️ @strangergraphics + unknown .

angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.

[ohnoitstbskyen]

hello ! do you have any thoughts about the new dragon age game and the info that's come out for it?

Some. Based on the limited footage I've been looking at (and for context, I haven't kept up with the promotion beyond the 20 minute snippet of gameplay footage they showed after the disastrous first trailer), it looks like it's trying to follow the legacy of Mass Effect 2 and Dragon Age 2 in terms of gameplay structure. Mission-based, fairly linear, constructed around setpieces and combat encounters with relatively minimal exploration and puzzles.

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing - Mass Effect 2 and Dragon Age 2 are the best games in each franchise - but I also get a sense that the combat gameplay has been streamlined down the point that it's functionally indistinguishable from any other standard 3D action hack-and-slash (somewhat in the mold of FF16), which feels very much like a play for mainstream triple-A broad audience appeal.

In the context that BioWare is pretty commonly considered to be on the EA chopping block should their next games flop, that feels like they didn't choose that combat style because it's what they really wanted, or what their core audience is interested in, or even because it's what's best for the game and its narrative and feeling. It feels like they chose it because they need John Gamer™, who buys 2-3 big triple-A game titles a year and who's never touched an RPG before, to spend some money on their game by convincing him that it's a cool fantasy hack-and-slash all about doing badass backflip jump slashes with a tone like Guardians of the Galaxy, and not a big, cheesy, lore-heavy fantasy soap opera / horny dating sim with a combat system bolted onto the side.

It feels like a creative decision pushed by someone in a suit jacket and graphic tee citing the need to be "data informed" about design decisions, and who, up until the moment Baldur's Gate 3 came out, was convinced that hard systems-driven RPGs were a niche product for a tiny audience that could never make real money because they surveyed 6000 Call of Duty players who said fantasy is for queers and losers.

Perfectly happy to be wrong about all of this, mind you, and since it'll be on GamePass, I will obviously be playing it, because even when Dragon Age is not very good, it is still Dragon Age and that's my goddamn trash right there.

[mysticalpotater]

"But tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, my blades will thirst again." - Orin the Red , Baldur's Gate 3

���️

▫️

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Recreated the bloodthirst dagger from Baldur's Gate 3 carried by Orin. The design was so beautiful and unique. I could have done something simple, but this screamed display piece. With the help of @foiledimagineer we created something beautiful, and I can not thank them enough for helping me make this idea into reality. Sitting at almost 26in tall .. I'm obsessed 😍

Materials used :

- Air dry clay

- Air dry foam

- Resin (mold had to be made from scratch. A replica soap carve out sealed heavily was used to form the mold)

- Inner claws made out of buildable nail gel filed down to shape

- Teardrop /bloodrop beads

- Black marker / Acrylic paint

And of course, the star of the show ✨️The Blade✨️ made out of a vibraint, fiery hint of orange glass cut by the wonderful @foiledimagineer.

I can't wait to get it up on the display case. Currently mid staining the wood. Had to get a custom shadow box made with how tall it is. 😅

[kurithedweeb]

This probably won't ever be an actual scene in Drop of Sunlight but I have found myself thinking recently of Garroth, a man who does everything he can to escape his past and the destiny his father ordained for him in it, standing at the gates of O'khasis when it finally comes time to fight them and wielding the man he used to be, the man Garte molded according to his own careful designs, like a blade to the neck of O'khasis as a whole.

I think of Garroth standing in the middle of the road, looking defiantly up at the guards stationed along the wall, and proclaiming himself to be the long-lost heir of none other than Garte Ro'Meave, who has lost all three sons in a horrible sequence of events that collided and fell like dominos.

I think of him taking off his helmet and handing it aside as he shouts, with all the authority and self-importance he can muster, that he is Crown Prince Garroth Ro'Meave, the First Son of O'khasis, heir to their throne, first of his name - last of his line.

I think of Garte's spitting image, face torn by scars earned in the most heart-wrenching moments of his life, backed by the friends and family he'd gathered over the years and haloed by the sun, demanding that his father be brought before him.

There's a war coming. A war he will wage, that he will not be fighting on the side of O'khasis for. He and Garte have business to discuss.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Since you can't fight old house renovations, I've decided to look at them as "interesting." This lovely 1900 brick rowhouse in Richmond, Virginia has been renovated and it's amusing how different homeowners handle it and how designers, architects, etc., interpret what is best and what potential buyers want. 3bds, 2ba, $565K.

Side hall Victorian. Looks like that may be the original newel post, but it's hard to tell. They made it very light, but plain.

In the living room, I'm immediately confused b/c the fireplace looks Art Deco. It's nice, but just looks about 20yrs. too soon to be in this house.

New floors, and what looks like an original fireplace. I like the pretty pink panels. I'm wondering if they removed the original crown molding and replaced it with a thin wood strip, then painted a wide stripe above it to make it more contemporary.

Modernized family room.

Silvery powder room. I like the modern take on a vintage sink.

The kitchen reno is beautiful and they get bonus points for leaving this wonderful old brick wall and fireplace.

I would've liked to have seen it natural brick, but...

The primary bedroom is nice and large. I have to give them credit for saving all the fireplaces.

They were able to make a walk-in closet.

Small redone 3 pc. bath looks like it has a vintage tub.

Bedroom #2 is lovely- a nice cozy fireplace and a wall with built-in shelving with a library ladder.

A typically narrow hallway leads to bedroom #3. Comfortable looking room.

I guess the bedroom with the shelving isn't really meant to be a bedroom, b/c this would make a 4th bedroom.

Cute little porch.

The yard is surprisingly large with pavers and a big pergola.

Look at how pretty the ivy is.

I wonder if you can pull a car in thru these gates.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/12-E-Clay-St-Richmond-VA-23219/12525439_zpid/

[beardedmrbean]

Bad Dragon is suing SinSaint over copyright infringement of their dildo designs. What I want to know is, can you copyright the shape of a dog's dick? Because if you can, you shouldn't be able to.

I did knot need to hear about this one.

one more pun

TSG is gonna be one of the more reputable sources for this one

MARCH 25--A manufacturer of “fantasy-themed sex toys” has accused an upstart Brooklyn, New York firm of knocking off its distinctive designs, according to a federal lawsuit alleging that the defendant has infringed on copyrights for dildos such as “Spritz the Seadragon” and “Tyson the Water Buffalo.”

In a March 20 complaint filed in U.S. District Court in Arizona, Bad Dragon Enterprises contended that its “sculptural” products have been illegally copied by SinSaint, which is headquartered in a Coney Island warehouse and advertises that all its “Ethically Manufactured” toys are “made in Brooklyn, USA.”

Bad Dragon, which noted that it has had “significant commercial success” in the adult toy field, alleged that SinSaint has been selling the duplicative dildos through its website and other trade channels, including the recent AVN Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas (where the new firm’s exhibitor booth was next to that of the all-nude Palomino strip club).

The lawsuit identifies 13 separate dildos that Bad Dragon claims have been copied (and renamed) by SinSaint, which was incorporated in New York last year. The colorful silicone toys feature scales, tentacles, suction cups, and other design elements meant to mimic the genitalia of dragons, sea creatures, and other fantastical characters.

Some of the Bad Dragon products that SinSaint is accused of swiping are “Kelvin the Ice Dragon,” “Stan the T. Rex,” and “Vergil the Drippy Dragon.” SinSaint has not been accused of pirating other Bad Dragon offerings like “Jason the Demogorgon” or “Cuttlefish of Cthulhu.”

According to the lawsuit, SinSaint’s counsel last month stated that the company had begun removing “some of the allegedly infringing listings for product redesign.” This response, Bad Dragon contended, was “unacceptable,” adding that it “continues to be harmed by Defendant’s ongoing, unlawful conduct.”

The Bad Dragon complaint seeks an order enjoining SinSaint from continuing any further alleged

copyright infringement and seeks “disgorgement of all of Defendant’s profits” related to the artificial penises. The company may also seek statutory damages of up to $150,000 for each of the dildos in question.

For more than a decade, Bad Dragon has sought trademark and copyright protection for various product lines. While often successful, the firm’s application to trademark its “Cum Tube” was abandoned after a government attorney rejected the ejaculating dildo because the “applied-for mark consists of or includes immoral or scandalous matter.” The application included a very NSFW image, which can be found on the U. S. Patent and Trademark Office website.

According to an August 2023 trademark application, SinSaint’s owner is Oleg Semenenko, 50, a resident of Brooklyn’s gated Seagate community. Semenenko lives less than a mile from SinSaint’s warehouse, which shares an address with GlobMarble, an industrial molds business for which Semenenko is listed as “manager” in a separate trademark application filed this month.

In a brief interview today, Semenenko was asked how a dildo firm grew out of his original business. “We work with rubber,” he replied. Semenenko dismissed Bad Dragon’s claim that its products were unique and original: “How can octopus hand can be your idea?” (4 pages) ____________________________________________

Hope the judge that did the recent trump case gets this one, even though I know that's basically impossible, just the thought of making him listen to hours of testimony about how these rubber fantasy dildos are protected by copyright or trademark law, or something like that is funny to me.

It's not a revenge thing wanting it, just a keep him humble thing. I know you think you're hot shit now, so here listen to these arguments for a bit.

Totally different note, I'm wondering how long until the discourse starts up, or if it has already started up, where using horse dildos is either bestiality or a gateway to bestiality because what with the way people treat cartoons of fictional people I can't imagine it's far off or not already here.

Look to japan for the tentacle ones.........

[chronicparagon]

[Tonight is going to be a long one…]

Why? Let me start with this question: Do you know what a lamb cake is? It’s a cake but molded to a shape of a lamb. It’s a vintage trend that became a spring and Easter thing. From what I saw the past few years, something seems to go wrong when people attempt to make the lamb cake.

Yes, there are a few cute ones but a lot of them end up becoming something from the depths of hell. Yes, some people intentionally make them scary but a lot of people say they tried to make them cute but end up becoming nightmare fuel. It’s like the idea of the lamb cake is cursed to become culinary monstrosities. Some are hilarious but others, you have to wonder what went wrong during the process.

I bring this up because tomorrow is my work’s potluck. A few coworkers knew about lamb cake nightmares and asked me to make a lamb cake.

So…tonight, there will be an experiment. I bought a lamb cake pan and looked up tips to make sure it will go right. I’m going to try to make it a cute cake. I’m going to see if this is really a cursed design.

However, I agreed that if this cake becomes adorable or like the spawn of Satan, I will have no choice but to present it to the potluck. Some of my coworkers asked for this. So, I’m going to take the dare and see if I can make it cute.

I’ll share the end result, be it be okay or be demonic (or headless since it turns out heads are known to roll off.)

I will bake it tonight, but first, I’m going to burn some sage in the kitchen to banish all evil that could influence the cake’s appearance. I’ll pray that I’ll make a cute cake and hopefully, not end up accidentally opening the gates of hell.

[starlightfallz]

Debating on posting this for a while, since I don't really use tumblr all that often. Here's sort of a AU slash OCfied version of Eve.

Eden's Paradise. When co working on their design with a friend [@/thewalkingbaka ] [ The others arts are made by @/cometshaper @/cryyon on twitter!] We really wanted to nail in more of the abstract arty vibe with this AU Throughout Eve's design and boss battle the theme's of escapism through the medium of art really struck and inspired me for a lot of this design. Escape reality embrace the abstract and be free from the retraints that is your mind. Artist use art to create idealistic worlds, scenes and images and then the theme of EDEN came up. With EVE being the name of the first woman in the garden of EDEN it just made sense,. The usage of wet and fluid elements in her design contrasted by the sharp / pointed geometric shapes are the perfect balance of framed freedom. Her extra arms are made of paint and appear smudge and very abstract, something that inhuman and strange. The eyes are themes of the phrase "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder' She see's beauty in everything, the bad and the good. The ugly and the so called beautiful, kinda why I have one of her eyes covered with the funky paint eye. To escape the chains of reality, that bound us to the conforms of society. The restrictions that suffocate of our freedom and individuality, to paint is to be free Freedom to express one's self, freedom to make the life you want your own. to be who you were always meant to be. To paint is to mold and shape into your desires. forever changing, forever free For that is paradise and the frames that behold these pictures of gates to paradise, her very own garden of EDEN. That's pretty much my thought process and lore kind of with this take? IG? I'll have more outfits with designs featuring more garden and nature elements as of right now this is her main look. I don't see them as someone who follows the binary at all, when it comes to looks and gender expression. A very all pronoun, Non binary artist that bends and breaks whatever society deems the norm- I'll go on about them in full detail in another post this is already longenough

[argumentalist]

You know, I don't love the original Mobile Suit Gundam. And I didn't think the RX-78-2 Gundam was that great. But the more I build the more I appreciate this iconic design.

This is my first time building an Entry Grade kit. I guess I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting, but this kit genuinely surprised me.

We've got a bunch of these weird double runners. A1/A2 molded together. I guess I don't understand why you wouldn't just call the whole thing the "A" runner.

The molding is fantastic on this kit. Nice, sharp details. And the gates are virtually nonexistent. According to the instructions you can pop this thing together without any tools at all - not even nippers.

I used my nippers out of habit, and a glass file here and there... But, yeah, probably not needed.

I used a gold Gundam Marker on the eyes. They were just molded in yellow plastic and I didn't think they popped enough.

Fun fact - there's no black plastic in the head. That darkness around the eyes is just a shadow created by gaps/recesses in the plastic. Some smart engineering there from Bandai.

Surprisingly good articulation here in the torso - there's a couple joints in there to allow a fantastic ab-crunch.

And I'm loving the colors in this plastic. That yellow is nice and rich.

The color separation is also very surprising in this kit. There's no stickers at all. That "v" in the crotch is a separate bit of yellow plastic poking through the red. There's High Grade kits that don't have color separation this good.

The arms and legs are honestly kind of a let-down after the rest of this build. They're very hollow with very simple joints. The articulation isn't great. And it all feels very tight and stiff.

If I understand correctly, this is what makes it the Full Weapon Set kit - the addition of effect parts for the beam sabers, the beam javelin, hyper-bazooka, and Gundam hammer. A nice little bonus considering how cheap this kit is.

I wish there was an effect part for the beam javelin - that grey plastic doesn't look great. But I guess that just means I'll have to paint it.

This is everything you get in the basic Entry Grade RX-78-2 Gundam kit. While you do get the handles for the beam sabers, there's no effects parts.

I painted the sight/lens on the beam rifle with a yellow Gundam Marker - again, it just looked too plain in the grey plastic.

While the joints are stiff and the articulation isn't great, it can still pull off some very nice poses. And the light weight combined with the stiff joints mean that it'll hold any pose just fine.

That beam javelin just doesn't look great out of the box. And due to how the handle and hands are designed you can only hold it way down at the base. I'm definitely going to have to paint it eventually... And I might modify it a bit so it can be held up on the shaft.

This is really a very surprising kit. Much, much better than I was expecting.

The build was very simple and fast. It didn't have the satisfying complexity of a Real Grade. It doesn't have the heft or weight of a Master Grade.

And it's a very simple, anime-accurate design. There isn't a lot of surface detail to panel-line or anything like that.

But it looks really good once its built. And all of that simplicity means it should be very easy to customize.

I'll happily build another Entry Grade kit. And I'm already thinking about interesting ways I could customize one...

[satoshi-mochida]

Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver 1 & 2 Remastered ‘Boss Reveal’ trailer, details - Gematsu

Aspyr has released a new trailer for Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver 1 & 2 Remastered featuring a first look at the remastered collection’s bosses.

Additionally, over on PlayStation Blog, Aspyr associate brand manager Matthew Ray as shared further details on the bosses and new map system:

■ Remastered Boss Updates and Reveals

Each boss encounter in Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver 1 & 2 Remastered is designed to challenge the player’s mastery of Raziel’s abilities. Our goal with the character models was to improve the textures as much as we could while ensuring that they blend in with the apocalyptic world.

Melchiah

The first of Kain’s lieutenants Raziel must defeat. This battle takes place in the Necropolis where Melchiah chases Raziel down while phasing through gates, making the spectral realm no longer safe. Strategically use the environment to expose Melchiah’s vulnerabilities and use his own devices against him. —Melchiah received a full texture overhaul with darkened skin and a slimier body-feel. The bones and skeletal mapping are now more realistic and gory and his eye color was adjusted to match the original look.

Zephon

Fought in a dilapidated cathedral, Zephon has evolved into an insect-like creature, fusing with this towering structure. You’ll need to ascend to the highest chambers and become willingly ensnared to be able to confront him. Search the room for any elemental advantages which could aid you in this endeavor. —Zephon was too desaturated, so we’ve completely repainted his face.

Rahab

This battle occurs in a flooded abbey. Rahab is fully immune to water, which is lethal to Raziel. Use Raziel’s agility to avoid Rahab’s deadly close-range and long-range attacks by jumping and make use of your newly gained Telekinetic projectile ability to exploit Rahab’s extreme vulnerability to sunlight. —Rahab’s head has been remodeled, so the eyes now have a reddish glow which gives him a menacing look. We’ve also altered the fangs to look more vampiric and made his skin color a little more gray.

Dumah

In a desolated fortress, Dumah awaits reanimation. Just like his other brethren, Dumah is invulnerable to any attacks, so Raziel has to be cunning and lure him to a flame powerful enough to melt even the hardest metal, all while avoiding tremendous earthquakes caused by Dumah’s incredible strength. —Dumah’s armor is now a lot dirtier and has patches of mold and blood all over it (considering he was impaled for centuries).

Kain

Raziel first confronts Kain at the Pillars where he must be swift and strike Kain three times to gain the Soul Reaver. The second encounter takes place in the Chronoplast, where the tiered arena makes evasion even more challenging. Track your target’s movements closely and make haste to strike him with the Soul Reaver. If you cannot reach him in time, use your Telekinetic projectile to stop Kain from using his powerful lightning attack. The encounter is intense and dramatic, but we won’t spoil how it concludes. Pre-order to find out! —The models for Kain in both Soul Reaver and Soul Reaver 2 needed to be completely re-designed to mitigate textural issues. With the increased polygon count we felt it was important to bring his look a lot closer to the Kain we got to see in the original FMVs, which was a lot more detailed and showed more-or-less what the original intent was for the character. The original model in SR1 was especially limited so now both games have a Kain that looks consistent between the two titles.

■ Map and Compass Details and Gameplay

In the original versions of the games, players often found themselves wandering the vast, twisting landscapes of Nosgoth, relying heavily on memory and environmental cues to navigate.

The introduction of the Map and Compass marks a thoughtful enhancement that blends modern gameplay conveniences with the preservation of the explorative experience the original titles were known for. The Compass gently nudges the player in the right direction without giving away specific details of where to go or what to do next and the Map is more of a reference tool than a guide. We also included a collection tracker for any Health and Energy power-ups so that you know if you’ve gotten all of the collectibles within each area. All of the major Nosgoth features are present and accurately condensed based on the setting and gameplay. For fans who might feel that these additions are a major departure from the original games, we’ve made sure to incorporate a toggle-off function for the compass.

In addition to its gameplay utility, the map is also a wonderful art piece that was created in collaboration with our development team, community advisors, artists, and designers at Crystal Dynamics. We knew accuracy was paramount, so we worked hard to pull from the original source art, design documents, and clues from game lore. We also incorporated community reviews to ensure nothing had been missed. Thanks to these efforts, the map is accurate enough to feature in the new lore reader bonus menu – identifying the location of each lore entry.

For design direction, Crystal Dynamics designers used a heavily inked approach that sits beautifully with the existing art, creating a stunning new way to visualize the world of Nosgoth. The Map and Compass are there to serve as welcome tools for exploration, ensuring that the remastered versions remain both a tribute to the classics and a modernized, more player-friendly experience.

Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver 1 & 2 Remastered is due out for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Switch, and PC via Steam on December 12.

Watch the trailer below.

Boss Reveal Trailer

[crypticemerald]

I've got nothing to post right now so have my oc, hes part of a subdivision of smaller iterators (in the sense of robot-like creatures) able to think of themselves (but are mobile) aka Operators :D

more rambling about Operators below :)

Operators serve as a way to persue small tasks between closeby groups, created during gen 2 of Iterators they serve as a ''fix it all'' having a set manual encoded in them which provides them with the necessary tools to fend for themselves and geolocate closeby structures which provide energy.

Being off the strings for them it means that they function off few neurons which they carry inside their body (which keeps them alive and stores some necessary stuff + recently given commands + records important events during their travels from one facility to the other). They recharge via a chargeble battery installed in their system by connecting it to anything remotely mechanical, such as shelters, karma gates (which they are able to access unless theyre karmically imbalanced or arent given permission to), communication stations/arrays and so on.

They do not have a great memory, they work on a limited one when off-field and when they reach the closest iterator they will connect to their structure, offering a scan of their can and offering to solve any issues they are able to fix within it, but most important they will empty their memory (think of outside storage) in order to recieve a new command/order/task. Their main purpose is to serve under the rules of the ancients and help with upkeeping iterator groups local to them or following their orders which may change from anything such as pearl collection, transferring data, rearranging faulty memory conflux structures, eliminate any threatening bodies to their host iterator can and so on!

[cough, if they find mobile rot even if their host iterator tells them not to kill it they will go on the violent route to eliminate the rot or mold]

Greatly respectful of ancients and senior iterators they will greatly follow orders given by seniors and other iterators, doing small tasks for them and serving low range messenger/support friend if you will. They are shorter than most iterators (with my guy being shorter than five pebbles) but more resistant and resilient than the mid iterator puppet plus a lot stronger!

Usually theres anywhere between none to five in groups, depending on their size and how old they are.

IDK they have some sort of weapon which they probably either carry around or its part of their design, mine has claws.

Their main rules are:

-follow iterator wishes

-ensue their safety

-dont mess with the enviroment (less prone to violence towards organic creatures)

ABOUT MY OC TE HEE

Ordinary Maintenances is under Chronicler of Methologies (an archivist iterator which belongs to @nemofil and they work under pearl collection duty most of the time, why most of the time?

Scavengers think of Ordinary Maintenance as a very very shiny object, so they trade him around until he menages to actually get up and leave their premises which is sadly not that successful. Seeing as Chronicler is quite a pacifist and feel bad about Scavenger he will often do nothing (not as he can do it) about it, leaving often time OM being traded around for shiny stuff.

Im not sure how i wanna kill them off but oh well, hes quite the resistant one, surviving through an iterator attacking them, being a chewtoy sometimes on sundays, and witnessing some pretty violent scav conflicts hes quite the silliest :)

stay in pieces chronicler, may you be loved by him as yk bros do (/j)

[planckstorytime]

Your Journey Ends: A Parting Retrospective on Dragon Age (Part Two)

II. The Threshold

Being more of a Star Wars aficionado as a kid than a pen-and-paper fan, I was first introduced to western RPGs through BioWare’s Knights of the Old Republic (2003). Admittedly, I didn’t immediately grasp the mechanics (it would take years for me to understand what Armor Class or Will Save meant), but the opportunity to immerse myself in a fictional universe with a story that I could mold through dialogue exhilarated me. It was one of those special feelings that I’ve yearned to recapture for the rest of my life.

My relationship with BioWare games further blossomed with the release of 2007’s Mass Effect, the start of a series that would go on to be one of my favorites and equally as important to me as Dragon Age. While Mass Effect sought to take the roleplaying genre in a more setpiece-driven, action-oriented, cinematic space, the studio shortly thereafter released Dragon Age: Origins (2009) to cater to the more traditional RPG sensibilities: methodical pause-based tactical combat, sandbox narrative design, and your all-important +1 rings. For me, the two approaches to a modern RPG – the progressive action vs the traditional throwback – worked in harmony. I loved Origins. Even at the time of release, the whole game exuded nostalgic charm. Imagine playing it, taking in its stony interiors, crackling torches, and earthy color palette, all while the crisp autumn winds hum outside. That’s the Origins that exists in my memory.

And yet, it’s the title I have the least to say about – probably because Origins speaks for itself. Its quality as both a player co-authored story and a character-focused epic are rarely challenged, and with good reason. For its time, it was virtually unmatched in its scale and scope for roleplaying depth, being perhaps the closest approximation you could get to a tabletop Dungeons & Dragons campaign on a PC or console. In my opinion, this distinct accolade would only be unseated by Baldur’s Gate 3 in 2023, fourteen years later. That’s how long Origins dominated as the pinnacle of comprehensive roleplaying experiences.

The attention to detail and freedom afforded to the player would never be matched by any future game in the series (though I do think Origins fans have a tendency to mythologize the game and ignore the contributions and accomplishments of its successors). Take the case of Berwick. Don’t remember Berwick? I’m not surprised; he barely matters. He’s a spy for the villains that you can find in Redcliffe’s tavern. Yet despite his insignificance, the devs programmed numerous ways to interact with him: you can discover his treachery through cunning dialogue options, or through observations from the right companion combinations, or you can pickpocket him and discover a note detailing his orders. Once you’ve done that, you can confront him about it and either kill him, let him go, or conscript him into the village’s defense against an undead horde. Or you could ignore him and the town entirely, allowing it to fall to the slavering zombie maws. Most games wouldn’t give you this many options for a single quest, but Origins does it regularly. You see this pattern again with the various recruitment methods for Sten, or the different outcomes to the standoff with Ser Cauthrien, which range from a difficult boss encounter to a naked jailbreak to any combination of poorly thought-out heists by your party members. Every major quest sports branching outcomes, and even small details about your journey are remembered and referenced in dialogue. Origins gives the audience an unparalleled sense of control and reactivity in the story. More than most titles before or since, it creates a compelling illusion that it is truly your story.

On the flipside, Origins’s commitment to its hardcore RPG roots occasionally burdens it. This is perfectly summarized by playing a dwarf character during the much-maligned Fade section. The healing lyrium veins, your sole respite in this godforsaken dungeon, do not work on dwarves because they, canonically, have a resistance to the substance’s effects. Origins’s devotion to its lore and worldbuilding runs so deep that it will not sacrifice it for the player’s convenience. Aspects like this are as aggravating as they are admirable.

For all of the praises that I and others have heaped upon it, I want to emphasize that Origins is far from a perfect game. Jank, for lack of more accurate term, plagues many of its sequences and encounters. The expansion “Awakening” especially mars it, with numerous sequencing errors, narrative inconsistencies, and bugged quests. However, I mainly want to focus on what I consider the game’s few (but noteworthy) narrative and artistic shortcomings.

Fans often chide the later entries for moving away from the “dark fantasy” tone and aesthetic that Origins presented. While I do think the first game is superficially grittier than its younger siblings, I feel that Dragon Age has always been high fantasy that happened to, in its early days, insecurely masquerade in the bleak, mismatched set dressings of dark fantasy. Look no further than this actual, real trailer from 2009 that matches up a montage of gratuitous sex and violence to Marilyn Manson’s “This Is the New Shit” – a stark contrast to the game’s plodding moment-to-moment gameplay and surprisingly traditional narrative. It’s every bit as juvenile and embarrassing as it sounds, and that’s the issue. Origins feels its most adolescent when its pantomiming what a fourteen year old thinks is “adult.” It somewhat recklessly employs sexual violence against women as a plot point to a numbing degree, which doesn’t even make textual sense when the setting explicitly states that men and women are treated equally in Fereldan. If anything, women should be more privileged in this setting, since only they can be ordained as priests in the Chantry’s religious monopoly; and Orlais, the largest empire in the world, is led by an empress. But I digress. “Realistic” discriminatory violence was in vogue for the edgier sensibilities of the late 2000s, even if it lacked nuance or any semblance intratextual critique.

This key art goes really hard, though.

Origins puts up a front that tries to say, “This isn’t your dad’s D&D!” Except it is your dad’s D&D. It was a throwback to a more classical RPG style, even when it first came out – a deliberate counter-current against modern trends that skewed more toward dazzling (or obnoxious) action and spectacle. Strip away the veneer of gore and sexual violence and you’re left with a story that’s not dissimilar to The Lord of the Rings (1954-1955). The Warden must unite an army of men, elves, and dwarves and restore the rightful king to the throne in order to stand against an impending horde of monstrous humanoids led by an ancient evil. It’s familiar, romantic, even comforting – a tried and true story that’s brought new life by its lively cast and interactive components. I think this is why people responded so well to Origins – not the “dark fantasy” aspects that, by and large, contribute little and have aged poorly. The inclusion of these elements don’t amount to a substantive critique on the traditional story structure and tropes at play, so the overemphasis on brutality, gore, and sex come off more as self-conscious byproducts of their time, desperate attempts to stand out as more “mature” fantasy, than genuine artistic flourishes. It isn’t Drakengard (2003) or Berserk (1989 – present) or even A Song of Ice and Fire (1996 – probably never). It’s solid as hell high fantasy in disguise.

All this is to say that I feel the series’s eventual shift to heroic fantasy with Inquisition was natural – like it was finally admitting what it always was at its core. Or at least, it was finally leaning into what it was good at.1

Yet despite my minor gripes, I think Origins manages to tell a compelling story while interweaving its themes through each character’s personal journey. While I don’t think it has the absolute strongest narrative in the series, its combination of those cozy, familiar tropes and nuanced, textured character drama makes it consistently effective. With that said, I want to delve into what I view as the core tension at the story’s center, the thematic conflict that seems to underscore almost every major dynamic throughout.

This is not to say that The Veilguard’s method of sanding off all the edges and childproofing every conceivable problematic element was an ideal solution, or even an acceptable trade-off. Rather, I merely think that the franchise has struggled with its identity since the first day. I find that the series is best when it’s at its most mature – which is neither the excessive broodmother rape/body horror from Origins nor the frictionless “coffee shop AU” vibe of The Veilguard.

Full article: https://planckstorytime.wordpress.com/2025/03/29/your-journey-ends-a-parting-retrospective-on-dragon-age/