#more differentiation of crops

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 24

Azriel x third-oldest-Archeron-sibling!reader

a/n: As an extra warning: by my own standards this got very dark in the second part, and was very draining to write. You may find this a walk in the park, but if you feel like anything in this chapter is getting to you please obviously feel free to take a break, or put on some happy instrumental music :)

Also, this was written as one part—Tumblr forced me to split it into two, hence the posting of two chapters in one night

warnings (mostly for part two): angst, death, some blood/gore unfortunately, slight hurt/comfort but it’s complicated, prison-related plot, general misery for reader

word count for part one: 9,448

total word count: 19,262

The plan, as far as you understand it, is to winnow up northeast to the coastal town, Bornemere, then to fly the rest of the way to locate the few traders willing to barter for Illyrian steel, among other things only accessibly through specific trade routes. Like the oxen hide Azriel had mentioned. 

You can’t lie, the idea of having a dagger strapped to your body or tied to an inner pocket has your insides twisting. It seems overkill, to give you a blade when you’d imagine Azriel to have an abundance of his own hidden away. He needs you to navigate the jungle and differentiate between lethal and harmless invertebrate, while you need him to handle any creatures with antagonistic or aggressive tendencies. In other words, you can’t imagine one of you leaving the other’s side. 

It could easily be your imagination that convinces you of the salt in the air, that tangles itself into the roots of your tied-back hair and makes it stiff and sticky, but when the sea comes into view and the screech of marine birds cleave along through the winds, you’re reassured. The town seems large, expanding lengthwise along the coastline rather than seeping back inland that’s filled with dry fields and brown crops where small spots of white graze atop the hills, a few taking shelter in the steep cover of the valleys that seem to zigzag. Although your eyes aren’t quite strong enough to pick it out from such a height, you know streams will be running through their centres, fresh-water springs babbling up from holes in the ground before eventually making their way outwards toward the sea, joining forces until they accumulate into creek, gathering into streams before feeding into rivers. Casting your eyes further along the land you can spot an estuary splitting Bornemere in two, where the river opens into the sea, rock scattering the opening. 

Your ears pop as Azriel begins to descend through the air, keeping his wings spread wide to smooth the long glide down. Air rushes past your cheeks, a single strand of hair stinging your eye as the wind whips it about and you yield half your grip on Azriel’s shoulders to tuck it beneath the scarf wrapped around your head. It had been Elain’s idea, and now, with the wintery coastal air trying to slip its way up your sleeves and beneath the neckline of your dress, or even wrap its way up your legs beneath your skirts, you’re glad you bundled up a little more to combat the harsh winds. 

The plan, that you’d been trying to revise in your head before you’d become distracted by your senses, is to fly by Bornemere, pick up a couple of supplies for yourself—and maybe Azriel, but he hasn’t mentioned anything so you can only suppose—then return to Velaris to gather up the cotton canvas backpacks that will see you through the Summer Court jungles. At the though alone a ray of excitement splits through the grey cold of your mood. You wonder how many of the creatures you’ve read about, vertebrate and invertebrate alike, that you’ll get to see with your own eyes while traveling. The birds and insects are what you’re most looking forward to, having spent considerable time admiring the clean watercoloured illustrations of vibrant feathers, the iridescent shine of beetle shells with the flared sensors on tiny feet. The trip itself should take between two to four days to reach the centre, depending on variables like weather, the safety of the old paths, and whether the map that dates back two centuries is still accurate. 

Likely the two of you will also be making a subtle stop at one or two of the villages on the outskirts of the jungle, finding appropriate clothing as well as canisters for water and more long-lasting food. A small part of you worries over the attire for the journey. It’s no secret that Summer’s climate mostly consists of hot, open-skied days, and you imagine the jungle will be testing the line between  natural humidity and the inside of a birchin. With the insects around it wouldn’t be a good idea to venture in bare-skinned, but the muggy air might quickly change your mind on the compromise. The idea alone has unease settling in the pit of your stomach. You hope the long-sleeved clothing they’ll have will prove breathable enough for suffocation to not be a problem you’ll have to struggle with. 

Azriel drops a few inches down through the air, the circles now not as wide as they once were as his hazel eyes seek out the perfect landing spot to accommodate him. Your stomach lurches with the abrupt decrease in height and your hand that had been tucking hair beneath your scarf quickly shoots back to its original placement around his neck. You do try not let your nails dig into his shoulders, but you’re still so uncomfortable with flying, and the occasional far drop doesn’t help with your nerves. 

His hair ruffles in the wind, like she’s running her fingers through it though he seems unbothered by the cold, features cool and set as always. Dark brows dip together in the middle of his forehead though you can only see his profile, swirling hazel eyes hidden in the private hollow beneath, cast in partial shadow. Lowering incrementally further, you follow the line of his nose, tipping over the curve and falling to his lips. They’re sealed shut against the billowing wind but he looks the same as he always does. Calm, collected, and completely unbothered by the harsh elements. Until you reach his eyes, that is. They’re far too still to be anything other than focused. 

Azriel’s eyes don’t move like you suspect your own do—flitting about the place as you spy more and more colours and things to name. Where your eyes skitter, his hazel set cut. Slicing to wherever he needs them to be with the directive and aim of what you suppose must be a warrior. 

If his eyes are weapons, then his mouth…

Pupils cut into your own and you momentarily fumble, enough of a start that Azriel readjusts the grip of his fingers around your ribs, flexing over the slope of your thigh. Beneath your back and legs his arms recalibrate their tension and he inclines the angle to which you’re falling toward him by a fraction—to make up for the angle of the descent. 

“Once we land I want you to stay close,” Azriel instructs, not minding to acknowledge that he’d probably caught you staring. “Bornemere is a coastal town; the sailor’s here are known to have wandering hands so make sure to keep aware of your surroundings.” You dip your head, breaking the eye contact as you nod once. Even if he hadn’t offered the words of caution you’d have stuck tight to his side anyway, unless a special something had caught your eye, but you’ll certainly feel more at ease now he’s laid the offer down himself. You won’t have to feel like an intruder when walking beneath his shadow. 

“Have you encountered this trader before?” You ask once Azriel’s attention has returned to his mental checkpoint, curiosity perking in your chest. Azriel had mentioned before leaving that you would both be visiting someone in particular he knew dealt with Illyrian goods. In your periphery, he nods. “A few times. When I haven’t wanted to deal with the Illyrians,” he glances down to you and again you quickly look elsewhere. “In that regard, he’s been incredibly valuable.” 

“You don’t like Illyria?” You ask, though it’s quiet enough you worry the words will be swept away by the wind before they get a chance to reach his achingly familiarly curved ears. 

Azriel’s expression hardly shifts, but the features that do contort tell you a story of cruel barbarity, and a hate that runs deeper than the pure icy waters that carve stone in two, far below the earth’s surface. 

“No,” he tells you, “I do not.” 

You swallow, sensing you’ve approached a conversation he isn’t welcoming you to. So instead you nod your head vaguely, trying to create a noise of mild understanding in your chest, “It is quite cold up there. The wind blows right through you.” Your eyes flitter about, eventually settling on a warm part of his chest that you’re held against. “I bet the snow is pretty, though,” you murmur, not fully committing to speaking the words aloud, leaving it up to chance to bring your voice to him or whip it away. 

Hazel eyes cut toward you again but it takes a few moments for his mouth to make the reply, pausing in a way that makes you believe it wasn’t his first choice of comment. “Hold tighter. We’re going to drop.” 

You blink. “Drop…?” 

Your insides clench as his wings fold in, arms strangling themselves around his broad shoulders as his body lowers. Azriel’s wings flap twice more—firm, powerful strokes that send the surrounding grass whipping outward in a circle before his boots touch down. Your legs nearly buckle when he sets you down, adrenaline from having been so high in the sky making them weak and custard-like. It takes a few minutes before you’re confident enough in your strength to tuck your arms inward and nestle them deep in the warm pockets of your dress, concealed beneath a heavy cloak now you’re more certain you won’t need to catch yourself in case you trip over your own feet. 

The walk to the centre of the town isn’t too long, affording you the pleasant chance to take in the streets as their own beauty. Granted, some of the paint is peeling, but more than a couple of houses have been painted happy, uplifting colours, surprisingly fitting for the coast: a pale coral pink; starfish yellow with window sills the colour of crab legs; a house with a roof as dark as the sea beneath a new moon, its door painted an aquamarine blue with a knocker in the shape of a Gold-Gilled Lobster. A few homes have pointed, swirling shells scattered about their front steps and you imagine they must be the homes with children inside. 

For a town Azriel has warned you contains sailors with greedy fingers, you’re surprised by how many homes seem to leave such pretty treasures out. A particularly beautiful shell catches your eye, its spines covered in mother of pearl, the edges turning an oxidised blue-green before giving way to the prawn-pink of the rest of the carapace.

“Up here.” Azriel nods to a narrow alley that cuts between two houses—suspiciously out of the way—but before you can make the turn, Azriel pauses. You peer up at him, curious. 

“He might seem intimidating to you, at first,” Azriel begins. “He isn’t one for small talk, or talk at all, for that matter.” You shift on your feet, nerves beginning to squirm in your thighs and arms, making your body restless and anxious. You nod your head. Azriel nods, but pauses again. Then seems to think better, and turns, letting you quietly follow him down between the houses to a new street and through the darkened door of a low-ceilinged shop. 

The inside smells of leather and a kind of polish or preservative that makes your nostrils sting for the first moments after entering. Tunics and boots and hats and gloves are categorised on separate displays within the wide room, a table in the centre containing the leather pre-craft, and discomfort slithers through your gut as you wrap the skinned leather back up around the animal it once was. 

Azriel turns to you, “Wait here.” Then he’s silently moving behind the desk and through the doorway behind it. Disappearing from view.

With little to do until he returns, you take your time to peer more closely around the shop. More specifically following Azriel’s footsteps to the desk but pausing before passing the invisible threshold where you’re allowed to tread. Mounted on the wall are rows and rows of blades. Most possess only one honed edge of steel but a few are duel pronged and you have to wonder what they could be used for. The blades vary in size, some as long as your little finger, others the length of your leg. One in particular catches your eye, leaned up against one corner of the wall behind the desk, though at first you hadn’t realised it was a blade due to its size. The steel edge has to be at least the height of your body, if not more, and the handle seems like it might be as thick as both your forearms bound together. You allow your gaze to curiously wander over the clean edge, the small notches made along the hilt before returning the selection on the wall. 

It’s strange, when you think about it. Maybe it’s because creatures in Prythian are inherently intertwined with magic, but weight and mass seem to have no affect on them, unlike humans. You’d be able to hear someone walking up behind you, even if they were trying to be quiet. Fae, or rather faeries, seem to be able to silence even their heartbeat if they wish to as you don’t even hear the door go or the creak of floorboards until a gruff voice asks from behind you, “Can I help?” 

You jump, spinning around as your heart pounds, only to be forced to yield enough steps to have the ledge of the desk digging into your shoulder blades so you can crane your neck high enough to find the top of the creature before you. The Ogre’s skin is a dark, forest green mixed with traces of grey over the powerful circles of his shoulders, the soft curls of hair that crawl across the two halves of his upper chest cut off by the linen shirt. His brows are thick and heavy above yellow eyes that are sliced through with horizontal-laying pupils—not unlike the eyes of a goat, or sheep. Long, thick tusks jut out from his lower jaw, pressing into the soft flesh of his upper lip, revealing the slightest hint of pink beneath. Forearms thicker than your thighs are folded over a wide chest, his brows carved downwards in unmistakeable displeasure that borders on aggression. 

Your lips part, his large silhouette entirely eclipsing the limited light, his shadows swallowing your body completely as he looms before you, removing the possibility of escape. You thought the Illyrian’s were built like nature’s supreme beasts, but the Ogre before you would make even Cassian appear the size of an average human man. Frighteningly large for a shop so small. 

“I-…” You stammer, trying quickly to get your bearings. “Are you- You’re the trader?” The Ogre’s brows narrow further and his response comes in the form of a single, rough-edged grunt. You swallow—Azriel should have given you more warnings. Intimidating doesn’t do the mountain of a male before you even an ounce of justice. “My- friend,” you manage, “he brought me here…” You swallow again, finding your lips sticky from the sea air and crisp. “I believe we’re looking for leather coverings? For myself.” Yellow eyes don’t so much as shift before he answers, “You’ll find nothing here.” 

“Nothing…?” You repeat, trying now to lean less of your weight on the desk, its ledge uncomfortably digging into your shoulders—the height makes sense now. “Then, a blade?” 

“Do you know how to hold one?” 

You blink at his harsh reply, then frown. “I require one, and wish to purchase one.” Then you push a little away from the counter, straightening your spine. “Do you have one?” 

The Ogre’s eyes narrow and you try to fight the urge to cower and crawl behind the desk. He tilts his head, “Where’s your friend?” It takes you a few seconds to remember you’d given Azriel that title, but by the time you remember the Ogre’s speaking again. “Are you making the purchase yourself?” 

“I-…I don’t think so…” That was something you hadn’t discussed with him. It’s a logical assumption to guess Azriel will be paying for whatever you need, since he’s the one insisting on a weapon for your person, but it feels wrong to jump to that conclusion. 

The Ogre’s eyes don’t stray from yours, and the need to crawl away beneath the table increases, his gaze piercing into you, “I don’t see your friend anywhere.” An embarrassed flush creeps up your neck—he thinks you’re lying. “He went upstairs. I think to look for you.” 

“Customers aren’t allowed upstairs.” The Ogre’s tone has shifted away from displeasure, having dived deep now into blatant aggression, violence simmering in his eyes. Gleaming too eagerly, despite the glacial fury twisting his mouth. He walks past you, gripping the hilt of the blade that had been leant up against the wall. It looks almost small in his hands. 

“He wouldn’t-” You fumble when the Ogre effortlessly lifts the blade from its standing, palms wrapping comfortably around the thick hilt. You swallow, heart jumping. “I’m sure he wouldn’t go up without reason. He said he’d met you before? Illyrian.” 

The Ogre pauses, ire doused though not entirely—not enough for the pulse of your heart to calm. “His name?” 

You wring your hands. “Azriel…? He said he’d visited you before, so…” The Ogre blows out a sharp huff of breath, the blade returning to its place in the corner—unused. “You should have said so to begin with,” he growls, his glare piercing straight through your flesh right down to the marrow of your bones. 

Your brows narrow uncharacteristically, lip curling faintly. “Quite a temper,” you mutter under your breath, scowl forming above your eyes as you pick out the faint footfalls descending the staircase, a beat quicker than their usual pace. Azriel really should have made it clear just how foul this male’s mood could be.

A heavy growl rumbles through the Ogre’s chest, hairs at the nape of your neck prickling as those yellow eyes glare ire into your skull. Your features twist in the slightest twitch of a snarl, before swiftly mellowing out once Azriel returns from the upper floor, hazel eyes sweeping once across the room, leaving only a second of pause to adjust his surprise before continuing forward to keep at your side. 

“Malachite. It’s good to see you again,” Azriel greets, each male grasping the others’ hand firmly. Azriel’s palm looks the size of your own in the Ogre’s grip who grunts his reply, moving to stand behind the counter while you equally move opposite, circling Azriel who’s left between the two of you. “What can I get for you?” Asks Malachite, attention abandoning you completely, shifting instead to the Shadowsinger who will be putting in the request. 

But Azriel’s attention cuts sidewards to you, and you falter. Shifting beneath his gaze. 

“Do you have anything in her size?” Azriel asks, eyes scanning over your body in a way that makes warmth flow to your cheeks, toes tensing in your shoes, head dipping a dozen degrees. You want him to like what he sees, but that’s probably not even the last thing on his mind. 

Malachite turns his attention back to you, yellow eyes glaring into your own set and you stiffen, bristling beneath the look. Heavy brows narrow over his gaze, casting his irises partially in shadow. “Nothing that wouldn’t hang off her. She has no muscle.” Azriel nods, apparently having thought the same. “Then how long will it take for you to make something?” 

The Ogre grunts, folding thick arms over his full chest. “That depends.”

Hazel eyes narrow by a fraction of an increment. “Twenty. Gold. Thirty if it fits perfectly.” 

“Done.” 

You blink, having expected it to go on for longer. Yellow eyes pin you to the floor, and Malachite nods his head to the back room he’d gotten so aggressive about earlier. “Back there.” 

Azriel goes first, and you hurry yourself to keep close behind him, sharing a glare as you pass by the Ogre, who grunts. 

Passing through another low-ceilinged corridor, Azriel leads you to a room on the right that opens up to reveal a scene you would not have expected an Ogre to enjoy. Threads are displayed neatly on one portion of the far wall, a large pin cushion with bauble-ended needles prickling out. Fabrics and leathers are rolled carefully on the far right side of the room, beneath a window, and on the left is a large mirror. A spinning wheel sits in a darkened corner, made larger specially to handle Malachite’s size. You can’t keep the surprise from your mouth. 

“Over here,” Azriel murmurs to you, pausing in front of the large mirror. You come to a stop just shy of his side, a little more at ease now the room is less cramped. And because Malachite seems to have gone elsewhere for a while. 

You shift on your feet, arms folding around your waist, one hand holding your side while the other sets itself just above your elbow. “The…bartering went quickly,” you say, peering around the floor—it’s surprisingly clean. Save for a few threads scattered between the floorboards. A single sequin glittering up at you. A nail not too far off from that. 

“Illyrian leather is high quality,” Azriel tells you, watching the door patiently, “We both know that.” Teeth squeeze the curve of your lower lip, eyes darting about the room as you once more shift on your feet. “So…you come here when you don’t want to go to Illyria?” You ask, wondering if you’re pushing too far. You can’t help wanting to know, though. You crave education about the world around you instinctively, searching avidly for every drop of information available, sinking into the wonders of an unfamiliar world with insatiable ferocity. It’s undoubtedly what’s helped keep you sane and relatively grounded.

But the way you want to know about the world is different from the way you want to know about Azriel. 

You read everything you can about Prythian because it’s there, and available. Flora, fauna, fashion, and history—there are plenty of tomes to read detailing the recent eras, the fluctuations in Court distinctions. You can’t recall ever desiring knowledge on something so unavailable and you try not to think about it too much. 

How intensely you crave him. 

It’s not good to dwell on. 

“It’s closer,” Azriel reasons, “and time is dwindling.” You shift, glancing sidewards at him, though not lifting you gaze high enough to meet his eyes. “Have you decided on a route for Summer?” You ask, pulling the map into mind. Despite not looking at him directly, you know his eyes are studying you now, turned away from the empty hallway. “I’ve been considering,” he relents, with a slowness that has you guessing at his internal indecision. Until his choice is made. “What do you think?” 

You blink, unable to help from staring at him questioningly. 

“Me?” You blurt out, confused. But Azriel nods as if it makes complete sense. Waiting expectantly. You swallow; lick your lips; swallow again. “I…well, I suppose in the interest of saving time it might better to enter the rainforest via the Winter Court…” You look up at him for approval. 

As if he’s ever given you any for yourself. 

Azriel’s expression is unreadable, and you look away, peering at the floor again. “From the looks of it though, the climb would be much steeper, and I’m not sure…” You trail off, wringing your hands together. You’re not sure you would even be able to cope with a hike like that at full health. Even with the safety of someone competent accompanying you. You clear your throat, “it might honestly take longer… I suppose unless we flew down to the peek of a mountain, then walked the distance to the Temple from above…but with the altitude, and thunderstorms, it probably wouldn’t be safe…” You look at him, “—Can siphons protect from lightening strikes?” 

Azriel nods. 

“Then…would the temperature be a problem? I imagine even packing lightly will still overall be heavy, and you’ll be carrying me, too, plus potentially a few flasks of water, which will swiftly increase the weight…” You pause, thinking. “That plus how thin the air might get, storms, lightening, heat, creatures….” You sigh to yourself. “I don’t think descending from above is a good plan…” 

Your shoulders slope, disgruntled. It had seemed a promising plan at first—a way to halve the time and avoid significant risk.

“Keep going,” Azriel tells you, making you peer at him. “Flying would be impossible, so what next?” 

“Well, we could either pass through Winter, which would be steeper and therefore have a heightened risk, but would probably be faster…” 

“Or?” 

“Or we could start at the foot of the mountains, right on the outskirts of the rainforest, and enter that way? But it would take much longer.” 

“How much longer, do you think?” 

You contemplate, recalling the geography, what the terrain had looked like according to that centuries out-of-date map. “If everything goes smoothly…maybe a day and a half through Winter?” 

“And through Summer?” You nip at your lower lip. Pulling the uppermost layer of skin from your tongue. “Closer to three days. Maybe four. But that would be if everything goes smoothly, which it undoubtedly won’t.” 

Azriel’s brow furrows. “What makes you think that.” 

You peer up at him, surprised. A little caught off guard by the question. 

“Well…” you begin, soft and hesitant. “That’s just how things go, don’t they?” 

Heavy foot thuds draw you from conversation, and your lips dip down at the edges as Malachite pushes into the room, carrying a small crate that proportionally would be the size of three stacked square pillows in your arms. 

He walks to the centre of the room, pausing in front of the mirror, and sets the box down with a rumbling thud, a gust of wind teasing your ankles, the crate hitting the floor with enough weight your foot would have surely been crushed had it been caught underneath. Though the Ogre doesn’t appear the least bit bothered by the heavy weight. He isn’t even breathless. 

“Up on here.” Malachite orders, nodding to the crate he’s placed in the centre of the room. Examining it now, in the context of the room and not his arms, it’s about half your height—not something you can easily step onto. You blink, sizing up the crate. You could crawl onto it, if you got your knee up first, but… You flush, glancing down at the length of your dress. You’ll have to hike it up, to make sure you don’t trip on the fabric. You clear your throat, a touch awkwardly. “Will you look away, while I climb up?”

Malachite’s piercing yellow eyes narrow, ire igniting once more and you can almost see the aggravated huff of breath he exhales from those round nostrils, thick brows furrowing. Azriel steps forward from your right, palms open as he reaches for you. “I can lift you up,” he tells you gently. But your own brows furrow, stepping out of his reach. “What? No. All I’m asking is for you to look elsewhere for a bit.” You say, turning back to Malachite.

His lips curl, teeth flashing. “Get up there or I’ll put you there myself,” he growls. 

It’s been a long time since ire has taken a hold of you so thoroughly. 

“Try.” You hiss, features twisting in a snarl. “See what happens.” 

The room is completely silent. Golden eyes locked with your own, the third presence holding his breath, likely preparing to cool whatever outburst next ignites. 

You know your hands are glowing. Can feel that tingle glistening at your fingertips. 

Malachite grinds his jaw, then sighs roughly. “Quickly.” He growls, boots thumping as he turns his back. 

You swallow, tension releasing from your spine and shoulders, muscles softening as you hesitantly turn back to Azriel, glancing up to him quietly. His brows are raised by a fraction, a pause of something passing through the air, but then he’s turning away too. 

You don’t waste any time in lifting your skirts and climbing onto the crate, Malachite already having turned back by the time the hem brushes your ankles again. 

“Hold still,” the Ogre orders, unrolling a measuring tape from one of his leather pockets. He takes down the length of your spine, the distance of your nape to your ankles; wrist to your shoulder; one hip to the other; the circumference of your upper- and fore-arm. You tense instinctively when he reaches round your middle, his large forearms brushing your ribcage, forcing you to raise your arms just so he has enough space. The measuring tape constricts sharply around your waist, making you jolt, already prepared to snap something else at him. 

“Careful.” Azriel mutters from the side, so quiet you nearly miss it. “She’s a fraction of your size, Malachite.”

“She can handle it,” the Ogre returns, tone disagreeable and stern, but the bite around your waist loosens, allowing you space to breathe properly as he takes down that last measurement. 

————

Malachite had said your custom clothing would be finished by the end of the day—much to your surprise. You suppose Azriel is paying him well. And the two did seem relatively friendly. Or as friendly as either could get with another like them. And Malachite had seemed a competent craftsmale. 

But now you have a day to spend in this coastal town, and little idea what to do. 

Little more than wanting to make the most of it, if it’s to be spent conveniently close to Azriel’s side.

“Do you…have anything else to do?” You ask, once you’re back out into the salty air, walking leisurely down a main street with the grey-blue sea occasionally visible between coloured houses. You’ve never had a chance to see the sea before. It’s slightly frightening, even from a distance. Azriel shakes his head, and you glance somewhere away, teeth pulling at your lower lip while in thought. 

“Can we see the sea, then?” You ask, looking at him hesitantly. 

Azriel nods, and steers you down an alley, leading between a wooden-made shack with netting strung along its exterior, and a cream-painted house with weathered window panes and a small back garden. You gaze across the flat horizon line, greyish skies meeting blue-grey water, thick and heavy. Bluer than the rivers you’d grown up by, and certainly cleaner looking than the brown-black lakes and ponds of your childhood. 

Stepping foot on the pebbled beach, a gust of wind blows briny air up your nostrils, smelling of something damp and stagnant, and distinctly salty. With the uneven ground beneath your feet, you’re forced to remove your arms from their warm huddle at your sides, stepping further into the beach as you make your way cautiously over to a cluster of black rocks, rich green algae sleeked across the seastone. 

The rock is jagged beneath your fingers, piercing even through your gloves and numbed flesh, but the mild discomfort is worth the treasure of the small pools gathered in smoothed-out hollows. Your lips part, an exited huff of breath puffing from your lungs and you clamber a little higher, careful of your footing. At the beds of the miniature pools is a thick layer of sand and softened shell fragments, spots of brown-pink and orange smudging the pale crusts. In the corner of your chosen pool sits an intact shell, and your lips curve into an exhilarated smile, fingers dipping into the icy water to trace the scalloped edge, grazing the ridges with your nail. 

A startled gasp escapes your mouth as little, armoured legs shoot out from the openings, tiny red pincers cautiously extended as legs scuttle sidewards into the sand, swiftly burying itself deeper and safer. A young crab. You’ve never seen one alive before. Or one so small. 

Gazing further about you recognise all kinds of shapes and globs—a dark maroon jelly clinging to the rock face, a smattering of barnacles with flecks of pearly white glazing their rough exteriors, slimy looking folds that appear like a long-forgotten cousin of landmoss. Even the algae finds ways to be intriguing, coming apart like cotton-based yarn on your fingers, sinewy and stringy. Pale yellow and lush green. It looks soft and cloud-like underwater, but limp and clutching once taken into the open air. 

You decide to leave the remaining creatures unbothered, and tentatively lift yourself from the chosen perch, not too bothered by the darkened hem of fabric that’s become damp and sodden in places. Azriel waits patiently at the foot of the seastone formation, hazel eyes tracking your footing as you descend the jagged rocks, leaving once you’ve reached the small pebbles again. 

Instead of asking, as soon as your eyes land on a flat outcropping of rock, where the pebbles doze away, your feet are moving. Dazedly walking over to peer down into the gatherings of water in the dips and crevices, spotting pops of coloured shells, small creatures skittering about from hollow to hollow. A wave froths over the lower portion of the vast rock surface, and even so far away the water ripples upward. Your curiosity flows with the departing wave, pulled nearer to the sea itself, until you’re forced to pause in order to keep dry. 

Although the sheer mass of water in incomprehensible to your mind, what’s obvious to your eyes alone is enough to have your breath deepening. Mind quietening as the waves spill onto the beach, hushing and shushing as foam clushes over pebbles and stones. You wonder what it might be like to be a creature of the sea. Whether the tides in the deep ocean are at all similar to roads across the country, or currents in the air. Whether the sea-life knows what pull to follow in accordance with the space around them. 

Time must be so different below the surface. 

Pebbles shuffle somewhere in the background of your mind, thousands of tiny stones rinsed with water rubbing against one another as a pressure steps onto them, yielding space to slot together better to accommodate the added weight. A wind roars across the beach, trying to whip the scarf free from your hair, luring strands free to sting and slice when they cut against your cheeks. 

“We should go inland to the market,” Azriel says, pausing at your side. You stand upright, but he’s still taller despite being on a lower plane of the beach. His dark head tips toward the open sea, where the horizon line has come blurred, the sky and water mixing as swollen clouds lethargically glide forward, peppering the smooth water surface with miniature raindrops, hitting the sea like stones. “There’ll be shelter further in, and it will be warmer.” 

You look out to the sea again, lips parting at how swiftly the storm is approaching. How thick the rainfall seems, even from such a far distance. Dense and near-opaque. Your pulse spikes. 

To feel all those raindrops hitting your skin…soaking your clothes and hair…trickling down your spine, behind the curve of your ears, crying down your cheeks and hanging from your lashes like teardrops… 

“Can we stay…?” 

The question comes out of its own accord, but you’re too busy feeling to retract it.

Azriel pauses, hesitance being an interesting texture on him.

“Sure.” 

————

He had been wary when she asked to remain on the beach, not sure she grasped how uncomfortable she would become with rain-drenched clothes paired with ice-cold winds, but the expression that had been on her face had been…compelling. A refusal had been on the tip of his tongue, but when he had looked at her she had been looking back, with her full attention. 

Azriel hasn’t ever seen her look at him completely—likely because a part of her mind has always been straying over him to fully gather her focus in one place. To look at him without another thought in her head. 

When the rain had come he had been able to hear her heart racing. Could pick out the rise and fall of her throat, chin tilted upright to watch the clouds fill the skies. Could see the gradient of her clothes darken, and the pattern of her hair where the thin, pale scarf was suctioned to it. 

He had waited at the beach’s top while she meandered down to the shoreline again, moving over the pebbles like the floor was made of springy moss. Once more scaling the jagged rocks and dipping her then-bare fingers into the filling pools, stirring up sand and life, having left her gloves behind. And this time, keeping dry hadn’t been a worry on her mind. 

Azriel’s stomach had tensed when she’d waded into the water until it was lapping at her calves, had been prepared to help her upright when she inevitably was tipped over by a wave she hadn’t anticipated, or had her footing undermined when stepping on a rock she hadn’t realised was there. And when she reaches down into the water, he’s certain the wind will carry across a yelp when the glacial water touches her stomach, startled enough by the cold that she will tip, or fall, or splash, or become submerged entirely. 

Instead her eyes become wide enough his attention on her narrows, both her arms elbow-deep in the waters, cupping something beneath the waves. Even through the thick curtains of rain she finds him, brows risen as she tips her head toward the sea. Come over here!

With a sigh, Azriel lifts himself from the cobbled wall he’d been stood before, separating the beach from the street, and walks down to the edge of the shore, the bottoms of his leather-bound boots inching into the shallows. Her back is hunched, sea up to her thighs, and when she sees he’s near enough, she lifts her cupped palms from the water. 

Laying flat across her hands is a grey seastone, but gripping to the stone is a dark purple starfish. 

Her eyes sparkle, already having left him to return to the sea creature. 

That’s right—she’s never seen these things before. 

And then he spots the darkness shooting just below the water’s surface. Concealed by the storm. 

————

A series of steadily increasing sizes of bumps run up the starfish’s five limbs, its skin littered in tiny speckles of mauve, blue, and maroon. They’re like the scales on a snake, with threads of soft, grey-pink flesh visible between them. Beautiful, and magical, in their own way. You have to wonder if the fish and animals in the upper parts of Prythian are especially designed, or whether some life is just more beautiful than others, magic having little to do with it. 

Just the luck of the draw. 

Azriel moves suddenly in your periphery, but his shout is muffled by the thundering rain. You startle as the clouds rumble overhead, starfish falling from your palms and splashing into the icy sea, hitting the bed and stirring up sediment.

You know it splashes, because something snatches at your ankle, and water sprays as you’re tipped over. 

You know it’s icy, because the breath is shocked from your lungs the second it snares around your throat. 

You know once it’s in the sea, it hits the ground, because your skull pounds with pain as you hit the rocky bed. 

Searing scratches bleed their way up your calf, claws crawling up your body. Salt water stings at your eyes and nostrils, burning your nose and the back of your throat as it’s swallowed down in a panicked gulp for air. The sea fizzes with tight air bubbles, sound muffled and thick, arms encased in freezing syrup as you try to find something to take hold of, feet thrashing as the bones around your ankle tighten, rocks grazing at your back as you’re dragged along the sea bed, hauled further out to sea, further from the shore. Pressure squeezing your already pounding skull as you go deeper, deeper, deeper. 

You lash out, nails catching on something and more water fills your lungs as you scream, something coming away cold and soft beneath your nails. Clumpy and flesh-like. 

Whatever’s grabbing you recoils briefly, before surging forward with threefold its original strength, claws digging into the flesh of your thighs, scratching at your hips as it climbs higher, a single nail running down the centre of your throat before strong arms are hooking beneath your own, a sudden searing heat blazing just in front of you, and you swear a flash like lightening hits the water. Cold, and blue, despite the brief burn of the water as it came to a boil. 

Water shoots from your nostrils, gurgling in your throat as you try to gasp for air, wind roaring and whipping, rain lashing down into your eyes as you’re hauled back to the surface, Azriel’s arms keeping you clutched tight to his body, wading through the sea to return to the safety of the shore. Your arms spasm, lungs coughing as your stomach clenches and roils, retching as water spills from your lips, spat out upon the slick pebbles of the beach. 

Your eyes are burning, panting and gasping and crying as stinging pain bleeds across your body, able to smell the copper even in the rain-soaked air. 

Through the blinking blur of your vision, you can see Azriel crouched beside you but the wind is too loud to hear what he’s saying. Thunder rumbles through the skies and you try to dig your knuckles into the spongey hollows of your eye sockets, desperate to see, to dry away the salt. 

A hot palm burns your cheek, warm fingers guiding away your pestering hands, pressing dry fabric gently to the inner parts of your eyes. You sniffle, lungs heaving, chest trembling, but slowly the blur subsides, enough for you to pick out the dry finger of a glove trailing carefully beneath your lash-line. 

Your arms tighten themselves on your ribcage, squeezing your sides as you keep your knees close to your chest, shaking violently. 

The raging storm is blotted away as a dark panel slides across the smudged horizon, a hand curving on your shoulder to bring you closer, and terror has paralysed your capacity for shame. 

Eyes burning anew; stinging as tears roll away, your forehead falls to Azriel’s shoulder, huddling into his warmth. Legs crossed at the ankle, hands tucked into your armpits, you can feel the pulse of his jugular against your temple, the line of his jaw grazing the crown of your head. His palm squeezes, your stomach spasming as hot blood recoils from your surface, steadily sinking inwards and slowly draining down your legs where that creature raked its claws. 

Lighting flashes overhead, thunder rumbling only a second later, and you curl yourself tighter, uncaring for the heat it’s wringing from your body. Dripping onto the cobbles below. 

“You have magic,” Azriel whispers, exasperated and strained. “Why didn’t you use it?” 

Your lips tremble, tears mixing with the rain, head hanging as you try to press closer to his warmth to keep away the whipping winds. Hot breath puffs along the length of your throat, and his palm settles over your skull, thumb trailing the perimeter of the wound you know is there. You’re grateful he’s holding you tight enough there’s nearly no room to shake and shudder. 

————

Azriel is convinced it’s one of the escaped immortals. 

His features had been strained when he’d carried you back inland to the town, finding a temporary spot for you to rest, indoors and warm, hot food and drink brought out, and given a quiet backroom to huddle in. The temperature is warm, but your left shoulder and hip and cold without Azriel around. Tingling palm-sized pressures on your ribs and thigh. 

Azriel’s jaw is tight, wings laced with tension, and you wrap yourself tighter, shifting closer to the crackling fireplace. It’s common sense you’ll warm up quicker with the removal of your clothes, but you both know that isn’t an option for you. So you settle for one-sided heat of the fire instead, alternating every now and then to give the opposite side of you a chance to dry. The only item of clothing discarded being your head scarf, hair hanging in clumpy strands from the sea salt. A tangling mess, sticky and sodden. 

Azriel glances to the clock on the wall again, and you reach for your tea, sipping tentatively, wary but not really caring about the scalding burn as it streams down your throat, heating your stomach. Your legs sting if the fire faces them for too long, but other than that, the pain is more than bearable. 

“Can you speak with Rhysand from here?” You ask softly, wrapping your fingers around the mug, peering into the sweetened, stirring liquid. Azriel shakes his head. “Too great a distance,” he replies in your same volume. “It will have to wait until we’re back in Velaris.” 

“Would it be good to leave now, then?” You ask, gaze shifting to the fireplace, already mourning its heat. But Azriel shakes his head again. “There’s still your armour to collect from Malachite. We will fly back once it’s collected.”

“You don’t know when it will be done…” You think aloud, shifting your hold on the mug. “Wouldn’t it be better to return now, than to waste more time waiting for something we aren’t sure will be finished?” 

“I know him. He’ll have it done.” 

Azriel sighs, for the first time since you’ve been given this quiet room in the back of a busy store leaning back in the too-small chair. Flames dance in his glowing eyes, and you wonder if he’s even seeing the fire at all, or if he’s learned to block it out. If such things even affect him anymore. 

The warmth leaves them as they cut to you, no longer reflecting the heat, and it takes a second for you to look away, cradling the mug. “Can you walk?” 

You blink, pausing. Mentally feeling down your body. Thinking how your flesh tingles and stings in different areas. The dull throb at the back of your head. “I think so,” you reply, looking to him, “if I’m fine to?” A phantom sting thrums through your thighs as his eyes cut over you, shins flickering with the grazing itch of a needle, threads of starlight glowing where his eyes trace. 

Azriel contemplates for a pause, eyes glazing as you imagine him once more attempting to reach out to Rhysand. “You’ll live,” he settles on, hazel clear again, “but say if you hurt. We’ll find a place to pause, and we can wait in one of Malachite’s rooms if you need space to rest.” 

You swallow but nod, not mentioning your aversion for the male. You’d prefer to walk on openly bleeding legs than willingly rest under the Ogre’s roof. Disagreeable and unpleasant as he was. 

Azriel gets to his feet, nodding to the mug in your lap. “Finish your tea then, and we’ll head out.” Upon noticing the questioning look in your eyes before you can hide it, he elaborates. “You haven’t seen the market yet, and it might take your mind off the events of the day. And it will allow me time to think on what to do next.” He adds at the end. 

Teeth chew your lip. You suppose if it will also help him…you don’t have to feel bad about dragging him around a town he’s probably seen anywhere from a few dozen to a few hundred times. Maybe more. 

So you finish your tea, wrap the now-dry scarf around your neck, and follow behind him as you trail back into the damp streets, thanking the owner sincerely on the way out. Grateful for the cozy shelter. 

————

The storm has passed by the time you return to open air, but has left its mark on the town. 

Cobbles are black and gleaming, puddles accumulated in between; crystal clear drops of water falling from iron lanterns, dripping from rooftops or the oxidised copper of gate rungs. The smell of the sea is temporarily overpowered by the damp scent of rain and wet brick, earthy with a twinge of brine. 

Still, the market itself is lively, tarpaulin strung atop heavily laden tables to protect from lashing rainfall, the slats that could hang down from the tops like curtains now once more rolled and tied, allowing passersby a better chance to browse the wares on sale. 

There are a few stalls that catch your eye, a surprising amount of variety for what you’d thought was just a coastal town, but that appears to be a centre for trading. The keepers of the stalls each gathering their wares then moving further throughout Prythian, carting special items between courts to sell elsewhere, exchanging where they can’t afford stock in gold. 

It’s strange to think about this world, almost similar to your father’s. 

Some tables are laden with thickly padded blankets, sheets with embroidered corners and tasseled edges, pillow coverings with matching floral motifs, outlined in golden thread. Others hold crockery and cutlery, and a smile tingles just beneath the surface of you lips when you spot a set you imagine came from the Winter Court—Bas’ home court. You swallow thickly, pausing to take in the distantly familiar details, blue ink glazed to the white ceramic, small figures that can’t be any larger than a single knuckle from your fifth finger pickaxing at frozen land. It’s both warming and aching to look upon, the faint taste of regret in your mouth. 

When your vision blurs at the edges, you force yourself to swiftly move on, shifting your attention to the next stall while Azriel keeps to himself, just remaining close enough to keep an eye on you without being invasive. It’s just what you need at the moment, space enough to walk on your own while having the comfort of strength within reach. Having the space to subtly dry your prickling eyes without having to feel the discomfort of shame. 

You pass by a few stalls before another takes your interest, smaller tables displaying knitted quilts and jumpers, thick scarves and three sizes of mittens—all too large for yourself. One table displays silverware: from rings, to locks, to hinges and tools. A box the size of your forearm filled with a variety of iron nails, some sharp as stingers while others twist and swirl, as small as a tooth or as long as one of your fingers. 

The male who watches over the stool has a sibling to this display, a table two thirds the size of the first entirely dedicated to jewellery—the silver and iron pieces made by hand while the ones forged in gold are the result of trade. You’re reminded of the blacksmith you’d spoken with in the Autumn market, who’d had the gruff exterior. For a moment your fingers itch to graze the lobes of your ears, but worry Azriel will somehow put all the pieces together, as impossible as that would be. Unfortunately the skill levels drastically differ here, most of the rings merely plain bands of silver, lacking the flourish you’d found so beautiful in Autumn. Much more practical looking, verging on banality, the exception being the pieces the blacksmith had traded for. 

Gazing over the twinkling gold you have to admit you’re clueless to how he managed to get his hands on jewellery like this. Compared to the iron and silver pieces, they’re stunning. More than a few engraved with small patterns, tiny coloured jewels encrusted in the centres of floral designs. You’re fortunate most of them seem made for male hands—there’s no way you could afford or trade your way into having possession of one of them, and you imagine they might now feel strange around your mostly numb digits. 

Azriel had mentioned some of the sailors having wondering hands… 

You cautiously depart form the stool, as beautiful as it had been, content to continue perusing. 

While the sting in your legs is very much present, you find more enjoyment in the exploration of the market, getting to see such a range of craftsmanship displayed all in one place. 

The next table you pause at is one that’s showing off more variety than any of the others, seemingly a collection of bits and bobs spat out in a disorganised pattern across the stretching table. Other fae bustle around in the space between rows, and you manage to slide into a space that will allow you to better look at the intriguing variety. 

After a while observing on your own, Azriel fills the empty slot beside you, receiving a wary glance from the stall-owner who migrates a little further down the table from where he’d been previously conversing with a customer. 

“See anything you like?” Azriel asks. 

Thankfully his proximity is enough to battle the shifting and shuffling of feet; the general bustle of the market. Your gaze roams across the long table, drawn to the splashes of colour gleaming before you. “Those are pretty,” you reply, nodding to the squares of coloured glass displayed upon pillow-stuffing in a tilted wooden crate. They look like they might be tea coasters, or lovely things to hang from the ceiling near a window, so the light refracts and spills beauty across a previously plain room. Your eyes stray to the other glass pieces, that smile again tingling at your lips when you see a few monocles filled with tinted glass, a pair of spectacles with circular, coloured lenses. 

They’re so ridiculously excessive they make your heart hurt. 

Azriel nods to the pair you were looking at, tinted indigo. “Why not try them on?” 

You look to him, lips parted. Brow furrowing, “Is that allowed?” 

Azriel shrugs, glancing to where the stall-owner is obviously eavesdropping. He blushes at having been caught, folding his arms over a puffed up chest, but gives a curt nod. You look back at the glasses, now in reach. With tentative fingers you pluck them from the display, sliding them over the point of your ears, letting them settle delicately on the bridge of your nose. 

They’re a bit large, but they fit. 

Unthinking, you look up at Azriel, curious for an expression to establish your own thoughts upon, and a beat passes. You swallow. “How do they look?” You ask, feeling heat creeping up your neck. Azriel watches you quietly for a few seconds. “Blue.” 

You nod your head, “they’re a bit too large, I think…” Carefully removing them, you fold back the legs, putting the lovely set back where they came from. “Those are pretty, though,” you say, gesturing to the arrangement of wooden goblets and other small carvings further down the table. Everything’s reminding you of him though. 

With a tightened throat, you lift one of the goblets, examining it in closer detail. The lovely colour of burnt wood, smelling smokey and familiar. Miniature circles ring the top, with eight arches etched into the sides topping two rings holding a series of squares inside. Skilled carvings. “Isn’t it nice?” You ask distantly, not sure whether you’re offering the question to Azriel or just thinking aloud. He nods anyway. “Do you like it?” 

You blink, lowering the goblet and looking to him, having not expected a question in return. You blink again, realising you shouldn’t be so surprised, clearing your throat and returning the carving to its place. “I- guess?” You stammer, not wanting to bring up Bas. It’s too ugly a bruise. “My father did things like this, though not-…practical…things…” 

Azriel hums, and you feel your throat closing up. 

Maybe you should have asked to help visit in the Winter Court, even if it would have meant travelling with Mor. You could have tried to patch things up with her, and maybe while you were there you could visit the statue Bas had once told you about. 

Maybe you should have insisted on seeing him once more, before he left. 

Just in case you didn’t live to say goodbye. 

[yandere-sins]

the whole feral scary naga thing is good👀 but do you know of a legend when a white snake was about to be killed but someone saved them, in return they became the snake’s bride? the delusional naga not only making things worst for the reader by forcing them to be their mate, but now the village has no choice but to sacrifice y/n if they dont want to starve to death (nagas in some cultures are higly respected and are important for livelihood and crops)

Oh my gosh... This is perfect... (I have heard of the legend but haven't researched it but even so it's perfect >:3)

You pet dogs and pspsps at cats when you see them, smile at the cows, and oink alongside pigs. All that and more, but you're not necessarily involved with animals as much as other people in your village. You like animals, and you tolerate them around you, but the thing that actually gets you excited is plants. No wonder you became the town's doctor as one of the few people who can differentiate between poisonous berries and digestible flowers. You are an integral part of the community. Nothing could threaten your position as a respected member and being needed by everyone.

Nothing but the damn naga you stumbled upon one day.

There were stories of these creatures, as with every belief, there are countless creatures to know of in your culture. You heard them, acknowledged them, but didn't actually believe in them. Most stories are scars for children anyway, and half-human, half-snake? Sounds impossible for you as a doctor.

For years you roamed the forests for plants for your medicine and studies. Years of never meeting anything scarier than a wild cat or a completely normal but still somewhat scary big snake. Years of walking in and out of the forest unscathed and unharmed. But you are immediately alerted when a human voice calls out to you from a pitfall. You don't recognize the voice from your village, but as a doctor, it's your duty to help.

You do everything you can, from telling them that you're there for them and will get them out of the trap and patch them up once they're out, to cutting vines to make a rope and throw it down into the dark. The possibilities of what could be down there don't unsettle you. All you see is your mission to help. When you tell them to try climbing your makeshift rope, you still expect a human to appear from the very deep, very large pitfall. Oh, how wrong you are.

Because while at first, you see the right things like hands, shoulders, a head, and hair, nothing from the waist down is normal about the suspected human clawing its way out of the trap. But it's too late now to cut the vines as its tail slowly drags itself out of the hole, the proportions becoming uncanny on a body much too big for a human and the tail much too white and standing out to be of a snake.

The real horror, though, is when you meet the creature's eyes, slits for pupils that fixate on you, dilating and narrowing as it musters its savior, its nose sniffing the air while you feel like you're going to throw up as you notice the claws, scales, fangs. The unnaturalness of this monster in front of you.

You made a mistake. A big one. The pitfall was not a dangerous creation for a human by a human. It was a last effort to save humans and keep a monster locked away in a prison it couldn't escape. You released it—enthusiastically even. The desperation you feel, knowing you might have doomed your village, is immeasurable. You can already hear their screams echoing in your ears as they are torn limb from limb by this monster, all while you'll probably die first, unable to help them as they call for you to heal them.

Both of you are staring at each other for what feels like a breathless eternity until the creature slithers—slithers!—towards you, its claws reaching out while you close your eyes, unable to watch it go for the kill. Its arms wrap around your body, and you gasp as it buries its face in the space between your neck and shoulder, your heartbeat racing as you listen to it sniff loudly, deeply inhaling and exhaling through its mouth. A mix of a purr and growl reaches your ears, vibrating in its chest and making you shiver in its grasp as the creature declares you as "Mate" before picking you up, feet dangling so far from the ground you might break a leg if you fall.

Luckily, that's not the creature's intention, and it seems delighted by you clawing at its shoulders, trying to hold on to it out of fear as it begins to carry you away. It's then that you realize that no way can you let it take you somewhere deeper into the forest. You are needed in your village! You are important! Too good to be eaten somewhere even your bones cannot be found anymore! It's a little scary, but as the creature has to lower itself to slip under tree branches and the like, you take the risk, kicking its stomach when it least expects it to create enough distance between arm and body to slip out.

You never ran as fast and breathless in your life as you did with the naga right behind you, crashing into tree trunks and hissing and growling, its claws always dangerously close to your body. You knew the forest well, but the only thing this monster seemed to care about was getting to you. It was foolish to lead it back to your village, but maybe... maybe! The warriors were skilled! The elders might know where to hit its weak spots! There was at least some hope that you could escape it!

The naga only caught up to you when you stumbled into the open clearing where your village was settled. Gasps and screams echoed around you while your face slammed into the ground involuntarily as you two collided, your body collapsing from the run. You heard the calls for the warriors, the terrified screams of the women and children, but all of a sudden, everything becomes very nauseatingly quiet.

Even with the hand of the naga pressing you down into the ground, keeping you from running from it anymore, you somehow manage to look up. What you see is almost more terrifying than all the possible scenarios you could have imagined. Everyone—the warriors, women, children, elders—knelt on the ground before you, bowing their heads, foreheads touching the dirty ground while you heard the unsettling sounds of the creature behind you, hissing and thumping its tail.

"My mate!" it declares loudly, possessively, and the people shudder in reverent fear. Finally, the oldest member of the tribe lifts their head, nodding before answering, "All yours. We will not interfere."

Their eyes fall on you, their lips silently mouthing, "I'm sorry."

You are once again picked up, settled tightly against the naga's chest, enveloped like an inconsolable child in its arms before it turns. You have to watch the villagers slowly rise to their feet as the creature spares their life with your sacrifice. The eldest shakes their head, turning to a warrior before asking how the naga could possibly escape. "I don't know," sighs the warrior. "But that's one more doctor lost to these creatures. And we tried so hard to keep this one."

"Better them than us," the eldest comforts him, patting the warrior's shoulder. "We knew the trap wouldn't be able to keep the naga from what they want forever."

Tears brimming your eyes, you meet the disappointed gazes of the village you thought you were so important to. People who gave you away in a heartbeat to appease some monster, and the bitterness overwhelms you as you realize they knew it was coming. Coming for you of all people, never telling you to leave the village and run for your life. Instead, they used you for as long as they could.

Until you rescued your own death sentence.

[margoisthemoon2]

Halsin x Astarion x Afab reader // Headcanon story

~~~ AFAB Reader is in a poly relation with these two. This takes place after BG3 is over. Both SFW and NSFW. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI ~~~

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

* The three of you got a cabin together. Away from the bustling town. Corn and wheat crops semi hide your comfy home. Behind it sits a large forest. Mainly only accessible by the road. Astarion, Halsin and You make due to live and go by your day peacefully. The three of you share an XL bed. With the money you three saved up to get it custom made to fit you guys but mainly Halsin large size.

* In the winter Astarion keeps you company inside while Halsin goes out hunting for the two of you. Sitting close to the fire and wrapped in a thick blanket. When the fire starts dying astarion goes out to get more wood. Eventually Halsin arrives with a deer or a few rabbits to cook. Maybe even fish if there is a part of the river that hasnt frozen over completely.

* In the summer/spring astarion leaves at night to feed every few days. Halsin helps prepare dinner and clean around the house. You suddenly rush outside, throwing up in a bush. Youre pregnant.

* Its late winter. Halsin runs into town to fetch a midwife. Youre grabbing onto a chair screaming in pain as astarion holds your hand and rubs your back “where the hell is he” he says grittily looking at the door. “Come you must get into the bed” he says helping you walk

* “Push mother. I need you to push one more time” the midwife says. You strain and scream as you push again. “Grab me the hot towel quickly” the midwife yells. Astarion holds your hand and Halsin jumps up and run to grab the towel that was prepared for you. Soon cries filled the room. “Its-its a girl” the midwife says cleaning and wrapping the newborn in the towel and handing you her. “What should we name her?” Halsin asks “Astaria of course” Astarion says “we are not naming the baby after you!!” You say “Her name will be Meridith” you say kissing her temple “What a lovely name my heart” Halsin says.

* Its been 3mths since the birth of your baby girl. Astarion has left for the night to go feed. Halsin walks in from taking down the clothes that was washed earlier. He walks over to you town as you just got done feeding her. Gently he takes her from you into his arms and rocks her until she is fast asleep. He brings her to the crib that he carved and lays her in bed. You watch them as he lays her down and kisses her cheek. You smile. He walks around and behind you. “We made that” he says hugging you. You hum. He starts kissing your neck. Moving his hands to your waist “no. Not here” you say “yes here” he replies grabbing you harder and pushing your hips into him fully. You can feel his hard on as you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck kissing him back. He picks you up and carry you to the bed.

* Halsin went hunting for the day. Astarion is reading a book and Meridith is napping in front of the fire. You walk over to him. He leans his book down looking at you. “Yes my flower? Looking for a cuddle?” He says putting his book away and leaning back onto his arms “no” you say getting on the bed and straddling him. You lean down kissing him. “Oh i like where this is going” he says wrapping an arm around your waist. The kissing gets more and more heated. Soon youre rocking your hips onto him. “Ah i cant take this” astarion flips you two over with him on top of you. “We are about to have alot of fun” he says smirking

* Its been 4yrs. Meridith adores the three of you. Even differentiate you all as parents, papa is Astarion, daddy is Helsin and ofc Mama is you. Its the afternoon. Meridith is at school and the three of you have the home to yourselves for now. Youre washing dishes. Soon you feel a large presence behind you, its halsin. He roughly grabs your hips and you feel kisses along your neck and soon back. You moan a little. “Come here to me” he says grinding his hips against you. Feeling his hard on through his pants. You feel your skirt being lifted up and warm hands on your thighs. Soon he slips into your underwear. His thick fingers plays with your clit before he dives in. Pumping in and out of you. Your wetness making it super easily to slip out. A second and then third finger was added. Your moans getting louder. He removes then and a loud tear was heard. The cool air hits your cunt. You hear him grunt and then felt lips onto your sweetness. You grip the counter top and he licks and sucks at your heat. You gasp as you try to close your legs but halsins strength hold them open. Youre cumming. You hear him gulp as he drinks every ounce of you. “Gods youre delicious” he says, behind you hear him as he removes his clothing. “Prepare yourself” he says before diving into you, over and over again he plunges into you. The slapping of skin against skin fills the room. Both of you grunting and moaning. The door opens and walks in astarion. “Oh what a show” he says undoing his pants and begins stroking himself. You moan not even noticing astarion has entered. You felt your arms being grabbed and you being lifted off the counter and moved around. You open your eyes to see a dick in front of you. “Go on now. Give it a suck” astarion says gently slapping your face with his hard on. In your daze you take all of him in your mouth. Sucking with the help of halsin pounding from behind. You feel hands on your head and breasts. “Gods fuck im close” halsin says “Me too. Shes amazing” Astarion says grunting. Above you astarion and helsin lock eyes and both leans over. They start making out helsing starts pounding you harder than ever. Your muffled moans are more louder “Ah fuck!!” Halsin says grabbing your hips tighter as he gives two more pounds before burying himself into you. You can feel his hot cum cover your walls and start to leak out of you. Eventually he pulls out. “Fuck, fuck, shit” astarion gasps as he cums in your mouth you swallow every last bit of him. He pulls out.

* Too weak to hold yourself up you drop to the floor. Quivering you catch your breath and come down from your high. “Ill go run us a bath my sweets” halsin says. Cleaning himself up and walking away. Astarion removes the rest of your clothes. Halsin returns and picks you up in his arms. Carrying you to the hot bath. “If you wasnt pregnant before. You sure are now” he chuckles “Ill be joining you two in there” astarion says behind you both as the bathroom door closes.

[yellosnacc]

I've been wondering - what are the tiny arms on the slomen?

The limbs on the sloman back are somewhat vestigial since they are not necessarily but most will still use them for their intended purpose in some way.

The "chicken wings" are often attractive to slomen as they help with childcare. Having strong or flexible mid limbs can make expanding family easier (you don't have to buy carry-bags).

Men will carry the meat eggs (external womb) before it hatches. After that the women often take the main role in nurturing the slims, since they are the ones with "crop pouches" full of milk-like substance.

The chicks get tired easily so even after hatching, the wings will find use for carrying.

On top of that, women grow long textured feathers on their wings, very attractive.

Some cultures don't allow showing wings or chest pouches while others don't care or they have it status based.

The colors on the picture aren't realistic and are more meant to differentiate sections of the characters. Real meat eggs are darker and have feathers of the parent's color.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Aphrodisiacs

The Greek Goddess of Love, Aphrodite, lends her name to an extensive list of foods and other weird and wonderful items that are supposed to increase the libido and enhance the chances of seduction and therefore fecundity.

The issue of fertility has always been an overriding concern for humankind, and any substance that either enhances sexual prowess or increases the chance of conception has always been highly sought after.

Ancient man had a limited seasonal diet, and a bad hunt or the failure of a crop could literally be a life-or-death matter. Getting enough food to eat was an overriding concern.

Chances of fertility are restricted if nourishment is poor, and so certain foods were given magical powers in the hopes that they might increase both male and female potency despite the limited diet.

There is a marked differentiation between the foods that increase fertility versus the ones that enhance sex drive, and given that early man did not know about the chemical constituents of food, many aphrodisiacs were chosen as such primarily because of their symbolic significance.

The Doctrine of Signatures—the notion that a plant or a feature of an animal that is similar in appearance or quality to a body part could be beneficial to the organ it resembles—had an important part to play in deciding which foods had aphrodisiac qualities.

Example: The Rhinoceros Horn still carries a frisson as a stimulant to sexual appetites, as does Spanish Fly. Both these ingredients, sort of mystical precursors to Viagra, were ingested by men in eager anticipation of increased virility.

Pliny the Elder and Dioscordes documented many of these aphrodisiacs as far back as the 1st century, and it is likely that they would have been regarded as such for some time prior to this.

The behavior and lifestyle of certain animals made them fertility symbols, too:

Example: The sparrow, a prolific breeder, was sacred to Aphrodite and its blood was a popular ingredient in love potions.

Steak was thought to contain all the virility of the animal it came from, the bloodier the better.

Ground rhinoceros horn is symbolic of the libido but the power of the rhino is also perceived as the ultimate in male sexual energy.

This ancient, visceral belief in the power of appearances has meant that many of the original foods that were considered to have aphrodisiac powers by ancient man still carry the same meanings today, despite their actual chemical constituents.

It is true to say that certain foods actually do have aphrodisiac powers purely because of these old beliefs, and generally owe more to folklore and symbolism than to fact; however, a symbol is a potent force and often the association alone is enough to bring about the desired effect.

Example: A dinner date where oysters and strawberries are on the menu will leave no doubt about the intended conclusion to the evening.

To our ancestors, any kind of food that resembled the penis, the vagina, or constituent parts thereof, carried powerful suggestive meanings, although latterly our ability to analyze certain minerals and trace elements has proven that some supposedly aphrodisiac foods may actually deserve their reputation.

Example: The fifty oysters that Casanova reputedly managed to swallow every day for breakfast not only resemble the female sexual parts in scent, texture, and form, but it has also been discovered that their high zinc content may indeed help enhance the libido; a large proportion of zinc is spent when men ejaculate.

For ancient man it was not always necessary for the foods to be eaten for them to have the desired effect. Some of the weird and wonderful things considered to have aphrodisiac qualities were toxic, but could work their magic simply by close proximity.

Example: The berries of mistletoe were a reminder of the semen of the Gods and the little crosses on the undersides were kisses, but it would be unwise to eat them.

Seeds, nuts, bulbs, and eggs, because they are full of potential new life, were considered as aids to fertility; snails, too, were considered to enhance sexual appetites because of the viscous fluid of the trails they leave behind, although slugs are not considered to have any aphrodisiac qualities whatsoever.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ List of Aphrodisiacs

[imbecominggayer]

Writing Advice: How To Write A Tight Story!!!

You are trying to write a story :D

BUT! The characters just feel so disconnected from each other that at this point they come from different genres. The plot lines just seem to be weaving less of a beautiful tapestry and more of a hairball. Nothing seems to be going together.

but fear not, for I am going to be giving advice today on how to connect your characters and plot thematically!

Today, we are pulling out our tool box and breaking out themes, motifs, and great writer shit!

A) Character Design :D

The trick to character design is to make everyone unique enough that they stand apart from eachother but cohesive enough you can look at them and say "yeah".

A trick that I use is to ground them in ~realism~

If your characters live in a cold weather, then obviously they're going to wear clothing that protects them from the cold. Now, there are circumstances that might permit your character to wear non-cold appropriate clothing like superpowers or species-related stuff but just grounding your characters into the setting and just saying "what would they need?" can just do amazing things for your characters.

Other things that cohesive-fy your characters is sharing a fundamental aesthetic but then having different branches of of these aesthetics. These aesthetics tend to also come with the setting!

Sci-Fi = Futuristic (Solarpunk, Cyberpunk, Cyberpop, Oceanpunk)

Fantasy = Nature (cottagecore, ravencore, dragoncore, etc.)

Slice of Life = Mundane Cozy (Academia, Clean Girl, Casual)

You get the point. Even the social outcasts will be using the same materials as the in-crowd uses, unless it's specialized material. The difference is in how they wear it. A social outcast's Sci-Fi outfit will probably be a bit tattered. A bit dystopian maybe. But it's still Sci-Fi!

Two characters can wear a crop top of the same material and still seem distinct enough if their backstories have them being distinct.

Differentiating characters is pretty easy. Have them share the same overall type of stuff and let the details weave the story.

B) Plot Lines

Look, there is no easy way to say this but you probably need to cut out some parts of your story.

Let me tell you, a plot is a summary of all of it's subplots. The goal of a subplot is to gradually build up these elements whether it be character arcs, character relationships and all that good shit so it can light a bigger fire.

It's just like a bonfire. The characters are the spark, the subplots are the logs, and the plot is the fire.

Ask yourself this:

Is there a way I can incorperate this character arc into a grander action-focused plot where I actively demonstrate this character's change?

Is there a way I can morph two subplots together so I can get both the benefits and the lessen load?

Is there a way I can give character responsibilities onto the well-developed characters I already have instead of just making new ones?

All of these questions can help chop off some of the bad filler that is weighing your story down. And also give your story a bit more breathing room so you can have all of those important quiet moments.

C) Themes :D

Let me tell you, having themes just makes my story that much more cohesive. It feels like there is this overarching tie between all of my characters that just makes the story feel that much more well-thoughtout.

A good example of characters being reflective of the overall theme of the show is "The World God Only Knows"! It's a harem anime that genuinely feels very well-thoughtout with the comedic dating sim parody elements and the deeper message about the fight with reality both bouncing off of each other.

It feels like a world wear the characters and the theme are both gently rocking the worldbuilding and story together.

Having themes allows me to identify potential character flaws within my cast, develop characters that I didn't really have an idea about, and the overall worldbuilding of the WIP.

Overall, my themes tend to read more like central ideas. It's less about a moral message in my opinion but an explanation.

Some of my lastest themes are:

" the horrors of love and understanding"

" the alienation of being not human in a world of humans"

"the burden of being forced into selflessness"

"the desire to no longer exist"

"the fantasy of controlling reality"

"the limitations of instinct"

I'll give you a quick summary of how each different theme impacted the characters and the storyline :D

"the horrors of love and understanding" inspired the storyline of being smothered in a Hive Mind and the desire to not be an individual anymore since it's so lonely being singular. It developed my main characters extensively.

"the alienation of being not human" was definitely uplifted by the fact that this is a superhero story about literal non-humans who may look and sometimes act human but will always be eternally aware of the chasm. It shaped my protagonists extensively.

"the burden of selflessness" inspired the motivation behind why Yituing became a villain. It also serves as the mantra for Nonkosi's character arc. The theme was eventually developed into a commentary on the Strong Black Woman

"the desire to not longer exist" was uplifted with heavy religious symbolism. This was demonstrated through an angel trying to use empathy as a way of self-imploding and an ex-pastor using invisibility to try and drive themself away from humanity.

"the fantasy of controllin reality" was developed in an isekai setting which definitely drove home the theme of literally escaping the necessary evils of reality for the simplicity of fantasy. All of the characters are inspired off of motivations protagonists tend to have which ultimately boiled down to a desire for control.

"the limitations of instinct" was a crtique on the argument that what's natural is somehow better. The main protagonists work with their instinctual existences with Nariman lacking in empathy and Hetrunmeass being an android who can literally turn off their feelings at any moment. They grow beyond who they were. They still are what they are but they are also something more.

[ididntknowwhattocallthis]

Ok I wanna talk about Ethari's clothing/design over all. His clothes and tattoos are different from every other Moonshadow elf we've seen, and he's one of the few that doesn't wear braids. Like:

The recurring elements are intricate patterning; over layers and under layers; multiple colors in the same garment (or at least same outfit); wraparound construction, color contrast between mediums, lights, and darks; and the dominant color is always the medium, never the lightest or darkest color (usually navy, true black is very rare outside of the assassins). Even arc 2 Rayla follows most of these rules and she's been away from her culture for two years!

But then we have Ethari:

He doesn't have an outer layer, he wears almost solid navy, none of those clothes are wraparound, he has no light color, there's not a lot of contrast, and his dark color is true black despite not being an assassin. He bends all the rules, though he only breaks one completely. He still has that patterning, but it's minimal compared to the others. He has plenty of accent colors, more than anyone else actually, but they show up on him far less. He does have light, medium, and dark colors, but his whole pallet is darker than everyone else's. The only rule he 100% breaks is the wraparound construction

A lot of this probably derives from the fact that he's a metalsmith:

For the most part his clothes quite are practical;

Black/navy hides coal dust/soot very well. It gets everywhere, on your pants and face especially, and is highly visible on just about every other color.

Forging is hot work & you do it next to a fire that needs to be at least 1000° celsius, I never wear more than one layer either.

those sleeves, while a bit looser than I'd be comfortable with, probably aren't going to get in the way. Plus I heard somewhere that they're spelled to repel heat (couldn't find if that's actually canon tho), so if that's true they're much better than my gloves.

The crop top isn't great but he's got that belt to stop most embers. Besides he's probably not the type to yelp every time one lands on him like I am.

if he pulls the scarf over his mouth & nose it'll help delay him getting lung cancer in the death trap of a smithy Wonderstorm designed for him (my problems with it are a post all on their own. I have nothing against the artists, its pretty, but by all rights he should be dead)

There might also be a cultural aspect to his clothing:

I think the navy blue, the arm bands, the boot decorations, and his belt & tabard could all be symbols that mean "I am a metalsmith" in Moonshadow culture. (Quick side note, he's not technically a blacksmith. historically blacksmith means specifically iron workers. If anything he's a whitesmith since he usually works with silver.) We see it with the assassins, why not metalsmiths too?

Plus if you take a look at his forge in the art book, there's a design carved on it that looks almost exactly like the one on his tabard. Elements of it also appear on other parts of his clothing:

I suspect that this is some sort of symbol for metal working or fire protection. If he's in a guild it could be their symbol, or it could just be a wider cultural symbol. Either way it has a meaning that relates to the forge specifically. I couldn't find it anywhere else in the room.

I just realized that I never even brought up the metal hems on his sleeves. Then again what is there to say? It's metal, he's a metalsmith. It's pretty, he likes pretty things.

But what about the rule he completely breaks?

As I said, every moonshadow garment has some sort of wrap-and-secure construction to it-- except Ethari's clothes. I seriously doubt this is a metalsmith thing. Basic garment construction isn't a sensible way to differentiate your group within one culture. I fully believe Ethari is doing this on purpose. But why? That why gets even bigger when you realize that no other moonshadow elves we've met have brown eyes or periwinkle blue tattoos.

Put a pin in all that, I need to explain my interpretation of Moonshadow culture for this to make sense.

"Moon Primal creatures can be private and secretive, and are keenly aware of the power of appearances." - from the official website

"Moonshadow Elves obey a rather rigid, honor-driven culture." - from the wiki

To me this paints a picture of a fairly collectivist culture. They place a heavy emphasis on community and duty, two things that are usually more peaceful/simpler when you have cohesion within the group. Cohesion creates less conflict, less conflict makes your community more peaceful and your duty to it easier to complete.

But they know that this cohesion is- to an extent- only an act, so each person has a sub community where they don't have to act. Your inner self is for family and friends close enough to be family. (I honestly think they might have some sort of ritual to formally adopt friends as family) To everyone else you're supposed to put up a front that makes you seem more like everyone else.

OK back to the pin

Even without his clothes, Ethari is already visually different from everyone else. No other Moonshadow elves we've seen have tattoos or eyes the same color as his. It's a subtle difference but it is noticeable, and in a culture so focused on appearances people would notice. Most people's instinct would be to try to hide or downplay it, to prop up that front as much as they can. Yet Ethari doesn't put up a front, not to the extent that most people seem to. He's even accentuating his differences by dressing in a different style than them- and he's respected.

In my comm class the other day we were talking about groups, and one of the things that came up was that cohesion fosters sameness and diversity fosters innovation. Ethari is an innovator, it's literally his job. He invents the wingalings in bloodmoon huntress, Runaan and Rayla's weapons, and probably a bunch more stuff we haven't seen. Maybe for all they value appearances and fitting in, moonshadow culture still recognizes that people like him are important and they aren't as effective when they have to fit in. They can't be too out there (remember, Ethari only bends the rules rather than breaking them) but as long as they stay within a certain radius of the norm they can gain a lot of respect. I think this is what Ethari has done. The fact that his family (Runaan, Tiadrin, Lain) are all pretty traditional probably helped a lot. They keep him from pushing too hard on the edge of the box and he keeps them flexible.

That they aren't there anymore has probably exacerbated the rift between him and the rest of the silvegrove caused by Rayla's ghosting and whatever news has reached them from the storm spire.

I am so excited to see him in S6. I thought about adding some speculation about what his new design might look like, but I honestly don't think he'll have changed that drastically aside from his hair. My biggest question is honestly whether or not he's still in The Silvergrove.

Bonus:

I bet that some of Ethari's relative weirdness rubbed off on Rayla. She didn't have many friends as a kid so, when she wasn't in school or with the assassins, it makes sense that hung out with Ethari a lot. Since he's less strict than Runaan she was probably only comfortable completely unmasking with him. He heard about all her crushes, fears, and insecurities that Runaan didn't. Which goes a long way to explaining why Ethari was the only one who could see she wouldn't be a good assassin; she was hiding those traits from everyone but him.

This also explains some of why he was so willing to believe that she ran away. Ethari saw all of her vulnerability, but he didn't see all of her strength. While she was out training and facing her fears with Runaan, Ethari was in the smithy and only heard about their exploits after the fact. Neither of them saw all of who Rayla is, but both of them thought they did and had to find out that they were wrong in just about the most heartbreaking way imaginable.

[rebeccathenaturalist]

The more mushrooms pop up, the higher the likelihood someone's going to try to eat them. All mushrooms are edible once, as the old joke goes, but as a foraging instructor I try to make sure people are prepared to identify those that are safe to eat multiple times.

Here's the thing: you won't know whether a mushroom is edible or toxic just by looking at it. Edibility doesn't depend on where it grows, or when, or what color it is. Taste isn't even a factor; people who have eaten what I call the "deadly Amanitas" (destroying angel and death cap) and lived long enough to tell the tale say they actually taste pretty good when cooked. Smell isn't an indicator, either; the matsutake is a prized edible mushroom that smells like old, dirty gym socks.

I've had people be disappointed because my classes aren't just a couple of hours of slide after slide of edible species. There's some of that, but there's a lot more focus on the nitty-gritty of identifying fungi--what physical traits and other clues to look for, how to use field guides and other tools, differentiating between similar species, etc. Only when you are absolutely sure you know what mushroom you've got should you then move on to determining edibility, and if there is ANY doubt, throw it out.

Oh, and one more thing: apps are a nice tool in your kit, but never, ever, EVER use them as your only tool for identification. I make it a habit to try to confuse iNaturalist (my favorite ID app) as a way to demonstrate that even a really well-crafted app with a huge database to draw from can still be wrong. And there is no minimum number of sources that represent a threshold of consensus; I've had people tell me "Oh, if three field guides agree then it must be correct!" Nah. That's amateur hour. My answer to the "how many sources" is always going to be "the more, the better", including field guides, websites/blogs, apps, journal articles, and, of course, other foragers.

Which, by the way, you're always welcome to contact me at rebeccathenaturalist(at)gmail.com if you want my opinion on the identity of a given mushroom (just make sure and take lots of clear pictures from multiple angles, to include the underside!) But again, don't take my word as your only source, just one of many.

[probablyasocialecologist]

What differentiates the fragile and polluting farm economy we have today from one that regenerates the land while producing a diversity of food in an unstable climate? The fundamental difference between these two farm economies is that one is capital-intensive, while the other is management-intensive. A management-intensive operation is one in which the primary asset of the agricultural operation is the observation, engagement and intervention by farm workers.7 A management-intensive operation simply has far more farm worker engagement per acre than a capital-intensive operation. In a capital-intensive operation, the primary assets are capital investments acquired using loans from a bank, which are then utilized to operate at the greatest scale possible using as little labor as possible, with the goal of reducing production costs and maximizing profit through the achievement of economies of scale. Both management- and capital-intensive operations utilize labor and capital to achieve a yield. What differentiates them is the balance between labor and capital. Management-intensive farms tend to be smaller, as the importance of human observation and engagement acts as a natural barrier to developing scale. These smaller farms also tend to be more diverse, as crop rotation and the inclusion of animals are prioritized in order to maximize ecosystem health and to reduce inputs. A system of small, management-intensive farms working in a decentralized self-organizing network would mirror the resilience, productivity and diversity of an ecosystem that has been freed from industrial disturbance. What a healthy ecosystem demonstrates is that the most efficient means of cycling energy within a system is through a complex network of relationships between mutually beneficial organisms. It is resilient not just because it is diverse, but because it is a decentralized self-organizing system, wherein portions of the system are capable of functioning on their own should they be severed from the larger network. These are the features that we should be trying to replicate as we design a new agricultural economy. By orienting ourselves towards management-intensive operations, we would be doing just that.

[yousadclownofaman]

HIFRIZA (GOBLINS)

Hifriza, or Goblins in the Common Tongue, are one of the five fingers of Orckind (with Orcs, Ogres, Onibao, and Trolls) residing on the main continent of Crodecca, and have spread to inhabit many of the continental archipelago’s sister-islands. Goblins stand shorter than Dwarves when fully erect, but usually lope about with a forward-leaning gait & often employ their long forearms as well to cover ground at alarming speeds. They are intelligent, at least as intelligent as an average human child, with a deep fascination with fire & toolmaking. Their hands are small but startlingly dextrous, and their musculature is lean and well-insulated against cold desert nights with a fine layer of hairs for trapping heat, and another layer of coarser, sparser bristles for protection against insects. Goblins live active lives, siring relatively small batches of offspring at once; they mate & develop at an incredible rate to offset this hiccup.

Groups of Hifriza develop distinct traditions & modes of feeding themselves depending on environmental pressures—there has yet to be recorded, however, even a single Goblin society successfully cultivating crops, or developing agriculture beyond their natural proclivities towards wild seeds, fruits and ground-nuts which they dig from the earth or crudely harvest from trees. It is speculated among Councilarium anatomists that their bodyplan—with relatively narrow shoulder-span and a deep, hatchet-blade shaped chest similar to some canines that allow for swift quadrupedal movement—inhibits the use of complex tools & activities needed to domesticate animals or plant food. Evidence exists to the contrary, at least in regards to complex tool use; Goblin gangs living on the outskirts of settled areas or in close-enough proximity to metropolitan cities have been reported to mimic behavior observed on trade roads. One witness recalls several Hifriza attempting to yoke a docile Oxdrake to a ramshackle cart-and-wagon contraption.

Gangs can be differentiated through visual identifiers; Goblins are highly visual beings, and it’s theorized that some of their compulsive looting behavior may be drawn by this very visual fixation. Tightly organized raiding parties and their families will decorate themselves distinct hairstyles, with various degrees of grooming or plucking hairs at the root, which reinforces social bonds. Bright body paint & patterned scars along the arms, back, thighs and face can denote rank or familial affiliation. Conventional armor weighs down these agile fighters, and so in favor of mobility Goblins usually lean towards padding & carrying capacity. Ropes, twine, reeds, rough-hewn animal leathers, looted baubles and clothing, piercings and loose jewelry are all to be expected when facing down a Goblin gang. Raiding gangs have been known to charge into a fight from all angles, hurling flaming arrows & tossing fat-soaked torches on anything they can find to suffocate their quarry out of their homes. Looters scurry into any open crevice, and Knocks batter down resistant structures or more heavily-armored defenders.

Though not particularly widespread, sorcorial magic use has been observed among isolated Goblin bloodlines.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A year in illustration (2024), Part three

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/07/great-kepplers-ghost/art-adjacent

Part one

Part two

Live Nation/Ticketmaster is buying Congress

I had a lot of fun scouring Victorian woodcuts for cool tentacles to add to this image. The garish concert lights in the background were a fun find – I was halfway through using them when I realized that the image came from my old pal Matt Biddulph, who has many claims to fame, but my favorite is that he once sarcastically called the area in Hackney where some tech startups were clustered "Silicon Roundabout" and then experienced the monkey's paw curse of having the government turn this into an official designation.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/30/nix-fix-the-tix/#something-must-be-done-there-we-did-something

(Image: Matt Biddulph, CC BY-SA 2.0; Flying Logos, CC BY-SA 4.0; modified)

The specific process by which Google enshittified its search

Around April, I realized I needed a visual signifier for "enshittified Google" – I created a cartoon mascot with the head of a poop emoji, colored in the original Google logo colors. I put him into "The Junior Partner Speaks," an old ad for Pacific Woolens and Worsteds, which I've since used several times:

https://craphound.com/images/juniorpartner.jpg

I'm very fond of using the homely old original Google logo as a way to differentiate pre-enshittificatory Google from modern, enshittocene Google.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

Podcasting "Capitalists Hate Capitalism"

Real Gilded Age corruption-heads will instantly recognize the editorial cartoon image of Boss Tweed as a suited figure with a sack of money for a head; his body language is impeccable, conveying a sneering disregard for decency and others' wellbeing. He works very well inserted into this tapestry of feudal peasants threshing grain.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/18/in-extremis-veritas/#the-winnah

No, "convenience" isn't the problem

It's stupidly, unnecessarily hard to find hi-rez scans of Rube Goldberg cartoons online, but this one is perfect and it was a delight to lovingly crop out all its little details. Throw in Cryteria's HAL 9000 and a Matrix code waterfall and you've got a perfect image of the complex, hostile traps of digital systems.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/12/give-me-convenience/#or-give-me-death

The unexpected upside of global monopoly capitalism

This one's pretty subtle! I mostly just added the monocle, mustache and top-hat to the fallen head of Goliath in Bosse's 17th century engraving of the triumphant David. The planet Earth in David's sling is a NASA image and thus in the public domain.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

How to shatter the class solidarity of the ruling class

Goodness, but "canceled" is a tedious cliche. If you must describe someone being ejected from polite society, please consider the far more delightful "defenestrated," not least because the many paintings and etchings of The Defenestration of Prague gives us a lot of public domain visual material to work with when illustrating such events.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

(Image: KMJ, CC BY-SA 3.0, modified)

General Mills and cheaply bought "dietitians" co-opted the anti-diet movement

The minute I saw this unsourced midcentury commercial illustration of a scientist working in a chem lab, I knew I'd get a lot of mileage out of it; I spent a long flight productively slicing it onto layers so that I could replace his head and put arbitrary objects in his flask:

https://craphound.com/images/labflask.jpg

I've used him before, but putting the Trix rabbit's head on him and sticking a box of Cocoa Puffs in the flask worked great.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/05/corrupt-for-cocoa-puffs/#flood-the-zone-with-shit

Too big to care

I spent the whole flight to SXSW last year slicing up a super hi-rez (10,000px wide!) image of Hieronymus Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights," slicing out individual demons, with special attention to the hoof-footed, anus-baring demon in a hat with a whole secret demonic clubhouse in its rectal cavity. At the end of that flight, I had a very funny conversation with my perplexed seatmate, who was dying to know what the actual fuck I was working on.

The background here is made up of desaturated, magnified brushstrokes from Van Gogh's "Starry Night."

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Red Lobster was killed by private equity, not Endless Shrimp

I inserted a rogue's gallery of "evil boss types" from various editorial cartoons into this vintage Red Lobster ad, including Boss Tweed, an impatient guy from a midcentury John Falter commercial illustration, possibly for a radio station (?) and a William Gropper sketch for a cartoon making fun of the business lobby's opposition to the New Deal.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/23/spineless/#invertebrates

You were promised a jetpack by liars

The newsie with the great grin makes a reappearance in this one, beneath a jetpack flyer taken from a 1928 Amazing Stories cover by R Frank Paul. The control panel is one of several midcentury electronics consoles I've spent idle hours cropping out (this one comes from a Schlitz ad depicting a HAM radio enthusiast). The hypnotic head is from the October, 1953 cover of Doll-Man, likely by Reed Crandall. I started playing around with halftoning with this one, on the background, as a way of hiding the JPEG artifacts that emerged when I uprezzed small source images. It worked really well.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/17/fake-it-until-you-dont-make-it/#twenty-one-seconds

AI "art" and uncanniness

I was so happy with how the extra fingers on this Victorian woodcut of a hand on a Oujia board planchette came out. And the green tinting worked perfectly with the Code Waterfall background.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

Part four

[artbyblastweave]

So one thing that irks me about discussions of the NCR is the idea that "they're flawed because they're trying to be America again. And Being Too Much America is what caused the War" without differentiating between the vast buildup of Nuclear Weapons and Geopolitical tensions, versus, like, being a republic and having a large-scale central state.

What's your thoughts?

I think the NCR circa New Vegas is textually intended to be repeating the USA's downward spiral. They're in the process of recreating the core dynamics of pre-war America- overconsumption of resources driving imperialist expansion, capture of the government by moneyed interests, and a prolonged conflict with a peer power that's suffering under similar expand-or-die pressures- but they're constrained from a one-to-one recreation mainly by the fact that they're working with a post-apocalyptic resource base, with the scraps left over from the last people who went down this path. Peanuts compared to the Sino-American war, but likely as close to that situation as the post-war-world is logistically capable of producing.

You see bits of this from the NCR perspective all throughout the game. There Stands the Grass is propelled by projections of incipient famine in the NCR due to rapid population growth, and you see the beginnings of this in Flags of Our Foul-Ups- O'Hanaran was sent to the Army by his family to lessen their food burden. Chief Hanlon's very first line is about how the NCR is overtaxing most sources of freshwater within the core territory, and he recounts how tiny groups of settlers backed by NCR logistics were able to take and hold a well in Baja against scores of locals; IIRC there's a cut event at Camp Golf itself where you'd see NCR rangers doing the same thing to Mojave locals encroaching on their water supply. The White Wash demonstrates that the NCR's sharecropping setup in outer Vegas operates at the expense of the locals, who can only get the water they need to support their own crops via subterfuge. If you assume that Heck Gunderson's underhanded Brahmin-farming empire in Beyond the Beef is supposed to parallel the real-world problems with the sustainability of beef farming, you start to get a sense of where all of that water is going and what structural problems (Heck Gunderson) might be in the way of allocating those resources more sustainably. There are likely more examples of this storm on the horizon that I'm forgetting.

As a result of all this, there's a level on which I think introducing the Tunnelers in Lonesome Road as a dangling White-Walker style Looming Apocalyptic Reset Option hanging over the west coast was gratuitous, not because it's Avallone grinding his axe with the idea of society rebuilding, but because it's simply redundant with the political situation already depicted in the base game- If you want the NCR to have collapsed by a future installment, just establish that they weren't able to put the brakes on in time and devolved into a completely dysfunctional oligarchy that collapsed under its own weight!

(Now, as a final note, one thing preventing me from fully committing to this take is that we honestly don't have a fantastic sense of what day-to-day life looks like for the average citizen in the NCR heartland, which I feel is kind of important. Because if the textual situation is supposed to be that the resource crisis is due to misallocation due to interests capturing the government, I like that a lot better than if the situation is genuinely intended to be that there are Just Too Many Goddarn People, because that's like. Lazy and Malthusian and leads to the usual ugly conclusions pretty quickly. More and more it's looking like the upcoming Fallout TV show is leaning into the recent decline of the NCR as a plot point, so, uh, fingers crossed they stick the landing when it comes to fleshing that out?)

[solarsturniolo]

pls post an in depth tutorial on ur text messages bc when i try to they always turn green but im like nono i want blue

Of course!

Here’s an in-depth tutorial of how i do my text messages!

(Whether they’re green or blue isn’t really something i know how to control, i just know that mine come back blue when i text myself.)

1. Make your phone number a contact in your phone!

Obviously, you’ll want it to be the name of whoever you’re texting as well as their contact photo. In this instance, we will use Chris, just because he was the last one I used.

2. Go into your iMessage app and start a new conversation with your contact!

You can look it up by number or by name, i find it easier to do it by name!

3. Start texting!

The most fun part; coming up with an idea and playing both roles. I like to make certain changes to make them seem more realistic and to differentiate between the reader and whoever they’re talking to! For instance, i ALWAYS make Matt and Chris use lowercase format. Their messages NEVER start with an uppercase letter so that i can easily tell which messages to delete when i’m going through them. I also make Matt and Chris use the wrong versions of your/you’re and there/their/they’re sometimes since they have a history of being grammatically incorrect.

4. The most frustrating part is having to delete some messages.

Remember: you’re texting your own number. These messages have nowhere else to go except back to you! So you’ll have to go through and manually select which ones to delete to make the conversation make sense! (I have had to start over on SEVERAL of these because of one message that i deleted on the wrong side, so take the time to pay close attention to which messages you are deleting! I literally had to redo my example ones 💀)

5. Review and make sure it all looks good!

Usually if I have longer ones, i like to make sure there’s enough conversation to make two separate screenshots without too much layover in the second one. Too much layover can cause confusion and make the reader less interested in the conversation. One or two messages is okay, just so the reader remembers where they left off at, but i try to keep it at three MAX.

6. Screenshot!

I like to keep the time, wifi, and battery percentage out of mine, personally, but you don’t have to crop them if it’s not important to you!

7. Delete!

I always delete the conversation once i’m done with that particular prompt, so as to not confuse myself when i’m making a new one!

8. Format the post!

Once i have 8-10 really good ones, i set up my format on tumblr and upload the pictures. Make sure the conversations are in the right order and then do your tags and stuff and you’re done!

The process can be tedious, but its not super complicated! Have fun making texts!!

[incorrectbatfam]

Alrighty, I'd like to take a minute to address something that's been cropping up recently, which is stuff like this:

I've been getting an increasing number of asks and comments like the one above (I've deleted the Ao3 comments and turned on moderation). Normally, they don't bug me, but when I keep getting them over and over it kinda feels like a moth buzzing around my room that I can't keep ignoring.

Basically, some people have been wondering if I use an AI to create my posts and fics as they are becoming more common.

Let me state for the record: I don't, nor will I ever.

Without getting into the rabbit hole of my personal opinion on using AI for creative works, I started posting consistently for the DC/Batfam fandom on Tumblr and Ao3 in 2018 and 2020 respectively. Many popular programs came out post-pandemic, such as Sudowrite in 2021 and ChatGPT in 2022.

I don't blame folks who may think that, though. Incorrect quotes already tread on thin ice when it comes to some people not perceiving them as actual fan content—tale as old as time. Coupled with that, I often answer asks with an easily digestible format and write fics on a time crunch that aren't planned out in great detail. I'm fully aware the quality is somewhere in the middle. (This isn't inviting people to tell me I'm amazing and transformed their lives—I'm here to give people a quick chuckle as they go about their day.)

The issue is all of this is now within the capabilities of AI and it's getting harder to differentiate, which in turn is altering our expectations of each other. You can't draw characters with wonky anatomy, you have to get every feature right or you're using a generator. You can't post a drabble with bad grammar and overplayed tropes, you have to be the next Great American Novelist or you're relying on an algorithm. Fan creators—who are doing this for free, keep in mind—are being held to increasingly higher standards just to prove they are genuine.

Some of you are probably thinking, "it's just fandom, quit making a big deal." The thing is though, fandoms are built on people with different abilities creating for the love of it. This isn't to deride those who use AI as a tool—you do you, it is a hobby in the end. However, when we ascribe mediocrity to inauthenticity, we're reinforcing the notion that if you can't be perfect, you shouldn't bother trying. It's frustrating and frankly has no business in our community.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #55 – The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez

Introduction

The Spear Cuts Through Water was one of my favorite reads of last year, and I’ve been meaning to get around to Jimenez’ other work basically since I finished it. Months and months later, my TBR pile and the library’s hold queue cooperated and I finally got around to it. Of the two, you can definitely tell Birds is the debut novel, but despite the roughness I can’t help feeling like it's also the one I prefer. I do have complaints (of which, more below), and the story certainly has issues with structure and allocation of wordcount, but this really is the rare book where I feel no compunctions whatsoever giving five stars.

Knowing myself, this isn’t entirely unrelated to how fucking heartbreaking it is at points.

Synopsis

To brutally over-summarize, the book follows Nia, a starship captain hauling crops on a freight route from a ‘resource world’ to Pelican Station, one of the great centers of human civilization and Allied Space. Due to the peculiarities of faster than light travel, the round trip that is for her and her crew experienced as a span of months is for the people at both endpoints an absence of fifteen years – a convenient way for her to keep making the same mistakes as far as personal connections and relationships go. On the last loop of the route before her contract is completed, she finds herself taking care of a mute, deeply traumatized young boy discovered miraculously unharmed by the locals in what seemed like a fiery wreck. The boy – at first nonverbal, inexplicably a musical savant, deeply traumatized and mysterious in a hundred different ways – finds his way into her heart to the point that even after they return to Pelican and he’s been turned over to the security services, she can’t stop trying to find out what happened to him and making sure he’s alright.

It’s at this point that the two of them come to the attention of Fumiko Nakajima, the Millennium Woman – designer of the five great stations at the heart of Allied Space, and (thanks to the magic of cryo-sleep and FTL time differentials) one of the last survivors of long-dead Earth. She sees in the boy the possibility of something miraculous – truly instant interstellar travel – and so hires Nia and a few reliable agents to take him into Fringe Space, safely out of view of any of her ‘friends and colleagues’ who might take a similar interest in him. For fifteen years. The story then reveals itself to be one of, basically, child-rearing and coming of age – at least until the moment where the child’s miraculous abilities really do reveal themselves, and all at once things get much, much deadlier.

Structure

The book is – not quite incoherent (the thesis is very clear), but certainly unfocused. At first I thought that was rather the point – the first three chapters are each incredibly effective, melancholic short stories in their own rights'; each leapfrogging into the perspective of a character whose actions or legacy shaped the previous, but with dramatically different casts, setting and plots. These are almost certainly the most aesthetically successful and artistically disciplined sections of the book, and as I read them I assumed it would continue in the same vein for the entire book.

It does not – the book settles very firmly into being the story of Nia and the boy who is later named Ahro. The middle of the book is an almost light-hearted coming of age story, spread across the years Ahro spends growing up in the Galactic fringe with his ragtag accidental family. The final act then dramatically shifts tone again, becoming largely about recovering from betrayal and the destruction of your life, and of striving in defiance of all sense and reason to reconnect with someone you love.

There are, then, three very different vibes here, and I can’t say the shifts between them are handled with the most grace in the world. The book absolutely never stops experimenting with style either, shifting voice, perspective, level of detail, and even format (several chapters are relayed as diary entries) basically whenever the mood strikes it. It absolutely feels like an incredibly talented author showing off a bit beyond their limits – you can see the seams, the allocation of effort between the parts is...questionable, and there are a couple vital characters/subplots who just needed another chapter or two of focus – but it’s the sort of messiness that leaves me incredibly endeared.

Love, and its Discontents

Those first three chapters are essentially short stories connected by setting and a character or two – but most of all they’re connected by theme. Each is, one way or another, the story of the protagonist falling in love – the sort of love that defines a life, that cuts you to the core whenever you remember it – and then having that love fail, leaving the lover damaged or lessened in a way that never quite heals.

Things do not stay quite so melancholic, but for a story whose whole climax is centered around the quite literally metaphysical and reality-shaking power of pure love this book has a bracingly tragic sensibility of it. Love is hopelessly one-sided, or turns rancid with resentment for just long enough to make sure it can never be restored again. Romances end in betrayal and murder, bonds both sororial and paternal in half-thoughtless abandonment, soul-deep friendships in vicious arguments and a severing of ties. Love, the book says, is deeply contingent and often more transitory than it seems – and if it isn’t, that can do far more harm than good.

Nia as a protagonist has plenty of baggage about this. She’s introduced as a woman with deep abandonment issues – that is, she keeps abandoning people and then feeling bad about it (her ship is the Debby, after the kid sister who lived and died seeing her for a few days every fifteen years due to the time lag of interstellar shipping). She latches onto protecting and caring for Ahro almost more as an attempt at redemption for herself as anything about the boy himself, it’s only over time she really grows to love him as more than a talisman.

I can’t say it was particularly well-spent time, but the book does something I love at least the idea of. Nia’s crew is introduced in the second chapter with a fair amount of detail and personality, each of them having little idiosyncrasies and distinguishing habits and virtues; one is a best friend she found stranded on a wrecked hulk and nursed back to health. The whole dynamic is that of the grumbling and bickering but affectionate found family crew you’ve seen in a thousand other stories. So when she commits to spend up to fifteen years of her life taking care of Ahro on the galactic fringe in exchange for truly unbelievable amounts of money, she sits down with them, tells them the score, and asks them if they trust her enough to come with her.

And all but one of them say no, and never show up in the story again. Which is possibly the first time I have ever seen that kind of scene not end with re-commitment and affirmations of trust from at least most of the real characters that were asked.

This makes the whole found family situation with Nia, Ahro and (most of) the second crew that do spend years in the outskirts of ‘civilized’ space with them works for me far, far better than these things usually do. Because, unlike functionally every piece of fiction I can think of that’s ever been promoted as being about found families, this one really does sell it as something precious and exceptional, rare and worth fighting to preserve.

It also gets all but three of the people involved killed, of course, and of those three one’s permanently crippled and death would probably have been kinder for the second. The book’s really big on stretching ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ to the absolute breaking point – right up to someone choosing not to die despite an existence of nothing but torture and pain just for the infinitesimal bit of hope and connection of a loved one singing through the prison bars.

The Banality of Evil

The villain of the piece is, without question, the monolithic and monopolistic Umbai Corporation, something between a neocolonialist conglomerate and a sovereign, expansionist empire in the classic sense with a few affectations from its earthborn roots (the specifics of the politics of Allied Space are vague and in any case more impressionistic than anything like a detailed speculative political economy). Which is kind of fascinating, in that it is specifically the Corporation as a corporate body that is the villain – agency and responsibility are spread across whole bodies of Allied nobility and corporate Judiciary officials, armored Yellowjacket thugs and career-minded techs and surgeons. There’s no CEO or President, no Board of Directors who set the agenda and bear ultimate responsibility – there’s no face to it at all, really. I’m fairly sure no agent of the company ever even appears twice. Which is just interesting on its own terms, given Umbai as an entity defines both the setting and the plot to dramatic degrees.

The world of the Vanished Birds is a horrifying dystopia in a hundred different ways, but until the very end of the book this just isn’t really something any of the characters particularly care about. It’s in the incidental details and the little asides in the exposition – that there is a great apparatus of censorship on every Allied world dedicated to controlling and slowing the rate of linguistic drift to ease the flow of time-shifted commerce, that the culture and economy of Umbai ‘Resource Worlds’ are societies deliberately starved of information and culturally engineered to be easily managed and quiescent single-commodity resource exporters. Even in the distant past, Umbai and institutions like it used their control over the Ark Ships escaping earth to filter the species – denying berths to (among a great many other things) anyone of ‘problematic’ politics or who seemed likely to be an economic burden.

It’s a universe where this system seems to spread inevitably and irresistibly, everything valuable bought up and parceled out for the benefit of the system’s functionaries diligent enough to save for occasional vacations, and the nobles and officials in the vaunted heights of far-off stations and City-Planets (the allegorical applicability is left as an exercise for the reader, a bit of restraint I did appreciate).

It is, again, not a system that’s worth analyzing as a speculative political economy or technical exploration of neocolonialism either present or future – but it’s not trying to be, either. And it works very well at seeming like a real, functioning world that the characters are just trying to live in.

The Anthropocene

Going off where most of its wordcount is spent, I’m not sure you could really call Birds climate fiction. But if someone was making that argument, I’m not sure you have too much ground to stand on arguing you shouldn’t either.

Fumiko’s first chapter, read as a stand-alone short story, absolutely is – the story of a love affair between genius savant designing the great orbital habitats which will sustain a lucky slice of humanity in the stars, and a talented but less world-shaping scientist doing what she can to lighten the burden of the remaining four fifths of the species being left behind upon the increasingly uninhabitable earth. This is where the book’s title comes from – the gradual disappearance of the birds Fumiko loved as a child, even from the sanctuary trying so ferociously to preserve them.

The world presented in that chapter feels just barely familiar enough to be unsettling, a scarred and fortified world that’s still on a clear and irreversible decline – which might be either chicken or egg to the fact that the commanding heights of government and industry have given up trying to save it entirely to focus on an escape to the stars.

For the rest of the book, environmental collapse isn’t really a topic that much comes up – though the human shaping of and impact on the environment certainly does. It’s just largely a matter of deliberate engineering.

There is, however, a very easy allegorical reading of the fact that on discovery of a way to travel instantaneously between stars, Umbai ruthlessly exploits and monopolizes it to attain unprecedented degrees of power and wealth as they reshape the entire galactic economy – all of galactic civilization, really – around the new technology. All without the slightest thought or care that this new technology is based on harvesting a specific and finite resource and their brave new world will collapse entirely without it. Omelas-child instead of oil but still – not exactly subtle, but I do appreciate the book restraining itself from directly and explicitly pointing it out.

Fumiko

The ‘millennium woman’ is probably the most interesting single character in the book, and also almost certainly the biggest structural weakness in the whole thing. Which is annoying to me, personally. She simultaneously has some of the best chapters of the book and also ends up feeling like a ball being tossed around as the plot requires.

Her Methuselah existence is only vaguely justified and explained, and it’s entirely unclear just how exceptional she is (beyond the fact she isn’t unique, anyway) – the story never even gestures to the existence of any of her peers beyond vague mentions of the Umbai executive class or Allied nobility. She’s an oligarch-savant with nigh-infinite resources and cadres of loyalists installed in every institution worth owning – until a single mistake is made and the powers that be unite in a perfectly coordinated strike to kill them all and leave her stranded in the torn up ruins of her private research colonies among the corpses of two thousand executed minions.

A character being ruthlessly crushed without warning or chance of contesting it by the powers that be rings more true when the character isn’t one of them, I suppose? As it was, it felt like being dropped into the climax of a story without any of the rising action.

The effect is, I think, at least mostly intentional. The entire chapter is about Fumiko being so distracted with the failures of her memory and a complete preoccupation with her latest project (Ahro) that she cannot even pretend to remember or care about this whole vast infrastructure she has built up for her own advancement and curiosity, or the hundreds of followers who treat her as a living saint (to the point of not even remembering her friend, confidant and second in command until the moment before he’s executed for, in essence, her failing to consider the consequences of breaking a minion’s heart). The fact that there’s a battlecruiser en route to bury everything she’s built in napalm and she just forgot to do anything to prepare is actually very plausible. In which case, I just wish it had been ore dwelt upon and made a point of. Or just – it felt like she really needed another chapter or two from her POV before things go horribly wrong, I suppose?

Her chapters are very well-done and affecting, to be clear. And her mirrored character arc with Nia – both women who get a certain pleasure out of other people caring about and being more invested in them than they are in return, both dealing cosmically poorly with rejection, both forever decorating their life in half-conscious memory of someone they left behind – is both well done and compelling (Nia gets better, Fumiko’s story in an elaborate murder-suicide/terrorist attack).

Too Long; Didn’t Read

Beautiful, emotionally affecting book. Very much a debut work from a talented author – experimenting and showing off a bit more than be supported, some fundamental structural weaknesses – but nothing I found detracted from the experience. Actually one of the quite rare books where sitting down and writing out a review has made me like it more rather than less.

[kanmom51]

JM live 1 September 2023 20:54 or 8:54 pm KST

And a little big about JK's same day live as well.

Part 2

Cr./To creators of content used in this post.

I'm going to dive right in.

Also, not everything I talk about is in the order it's brought up in the live. Just saying. These are ramblings of a blurry mind. Well, sharp and blurry. Just the right combination I say.

Let's talk about the apartment tour, lol.

JM, the master of privacy.

The man that wouldn't even show us his TV, only a cropped screenshot of it when congratulating JK on Dreamers.

The man that over the past close to 2 years since the hiatus, has done every live but one (the Billboard #1) from the company.

Yes, that man.

He not only went live from home (unplanned, which I discussed partially and will probably talk about again later on), from a room we got to see in his previous single home live, but he actually gave us a house tour. Well, somewhat of a house tour. A house ceiling tour with a couple of exceptions, lol.

This tour is divided into 2 parts.

First part was initiated by JM.

And this is important. Because it differentiates between perhaps more pre-thought of and less pre-thought of (more of a spur of the moment thing).

So, after mentioning JK (and reading out the hand comment) JM thinks of this:

JM wanting to show us his mood lamp. His planet mood light.

You know what I'm talking about, right? The one with that huge ass sun just right in your face.

He tells us how he simply came to meet us today and he has something to brag about.

Now let's wait up a minute.

He simply came to meet us on JK's birthday adorning his big ass watch starting the live at the time stamp JK was born, like time started counting from that minute and on (for him at least), and now he wants to brag about something that his friend laughed at him about (a grown man sleeping with a mood lamp), which happens to have the sun up front and centre, all huge in it's full glory, for him to fall asleep with (me continuing his story: when his bf isn't or can't be there by his side to fall asleep with).

Yep. All of that!

Ok, so JM is walking around, taking us to what is clearly his bedroom, camera at ceiling because his place is too dirty (his words) as he wasn't planning to go live from home (funny how plans change). He repeats it btw. Saying "I really didn't intend to."

Pause a second (we might be doing this more than once today). This is me just going back for a second to that same point I made in part 1. JM was not going to do the live from home. He doesn't say he wasn't going to do a live. He says he wasn't going to do a live form home.

JM takes us to his bedroom.

Who would have believed this day would come?

And if talking about not believing a day will come, perhaps me jumping the gun here, but can't hold back the excitement, what about this coming from JM?

Can't say I'm not shocked.

But then, maybe, just maybe, a little of his bf is rubbing off on him? And maybe, just maybe there is a reason for his sudden openness with us?

Anyway, back to JM's bedroom.

What's this now?

Not sure if he intended for us to see this, but we even got a peak at his bed for a millisecond... shock and awe...

*And kind of a downer for those that thought the snore in the dark was JK sleeping in bed. here is bed. Empty. Made. No JK. I guess you win some you lose some, lol.

Now this is where I got a little confused first time watching this. I actually thought that JM took the lamp from his bedroom to another room so to not be in his bedroom. Cause he sits down, fiddles around with something. Then gets up again and walks around, camera at ceiling (which was very confusing). But watching it a second and third time I think that he was setting the lamp up, connecting it perhaps, and then got up to close all the doors (bedroom door, bathroom door, closet door and who knows what other door) to go dark so we can see the beautiful projection.

And him having to connect the lamp, does it kinda maybe mean that he doesn't use it every night, mainly because who needs to fall asleep looking at the picture of the sun when the sun is right besides you in bed? Food for thought.

This is what he shows us at first.

He then turns the camera around to show other planets. But he always goes back to the sun. And makes sure to explain to us that it is the sun.

And while, once more, focusing on the sun says: "It's pretty, right?"

It definitely is.

And when he does his whole foot up in the air (I don't think he was pointing, because when he wanted to point he did it with his finger, pointing at the sun) caressing or whatever you want to think he was actually doing, it's with the sun.

You know what came to mind first thing I saw this?

JM and his love for playing footsies with JK.

Oh, and if I'm already going down memory lane, we have JK too.

Back to business.

I find it funny how JM on the one hand says multiple times he wanted to brag to us about the lamp, and then says it's embarrassing that a man nearing 30 sleeping with a lamp. And he talks about the friend appalled by it, lol. That a guy who lives alone (he repeats this) sleeps with a lamp. I guess that when you can't have the sun with you then a projection of it on the ceiling has to do.

JM adds: "these days I look at the ceiling and space out" - looks at the lamp projection that is. And when he says "these days", once again I'm thinking of it being due to JK's clearly super busy schedule.

So yeah, that was more or less part one of JM's house tour.

At this point JM turns off the light and walks back to the PC room (still only letting us see the ceiling as he is moving through the house).

He sits back down and tells us he is living his life like this.

He's sitting there reading comments for a few seconds and then he reads this one out:

Welcome to part 2 of the house tour, lol.

He straight away says: "you can see the secret room", grabs the camera and off he goes (again camera at ceiling of course), and asks himself "what are some things I can show?", while obviously there is still very much more that he doesn't want us to see.

He says "I will show just this one then", following by saying he really didn't want to show "my room", and then we are in his gym.

Shows us his treadmill, tells us "this is my secret room...right here."

So, let's pause for a second here before we move on.

JM clearly decided it's time to share with us (without saying it out loud) that he is boxing. A lot. The hands (he left raw for all to see) and showing us his gym as well.

JM has a punching bag at home.

No biggie, right?

He has a full proper gym at home, much like Tae does, and most likely the others too, well most of the others, because JK doesn't. JK, until a short while ago, didn't have any workout equipment at home. Let alone a punching bag. THE boxer in the group does not have a punching bag at home. And do we talk about the fact that all of his workout equipment, the little that he does have, is in his lounge room? I digressed. As usual. Anyway, now we know for sure (as if we didn't before) that JM is clearly boxing, and all that is left to see is his set of boxing gloves.

And then, JM goes to show us his dad's bedroom, for when he visits him. JM asks himself if there is anything he can show us from dad's room, answering "vacuum cleaner".

JM walks out of that last room, he looks around, nods with his head (looked like he was contemplating something but decided on NOPE), and walks back to the PC room.

End of house tour.

While on the way there he tells us how his parents "came over to my house and said this..."your house really has nothing, it's like a model house. It doesn't seem like a person lives here. Do you want us to change a bit?".

Ok, so JM's been living in that apartment at the very latest since May 2021. Over 2 years!! And in that time his parents must have visited multiple times. We know at least of once back in October 2021, so a long time ago. JM isn't telling us when exactly this was said to him, and timing, my friends, is everything. There is a before and an after that might be going on here. And It's kind of curious how at this point in time both JM's place and JK's place are lacking in the feeling of a home in the true sense of it. Lacking in adding their little personal touch to the place. Giving them both, at this point, the feel of these places being a temporary fix. Just until perhaps a certain 5 story house is built.

Do I address the marimo discussion and how it turned into a Suga discussion? Was that JM shutting down Yoonminers? Lol.

JM reads out a comment "I miss Jin and Jhope" and tells us he's thinking of going to visit them.

JM continues to read through the comments and reacts to them, this is around the 29 min. mark. You think the hand comments don't continue again? Like he hasn't addressed it 10 times already during this live. He smiles through it, but seriously!!!!

One comment has him giggling : "In my last dream you went out with me but I got dumped". Lmao. At least they were being realistic. His answer was: "I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional". Ehm, excuse me, but to me dumping feels very intentional. Lol.

One of the most annoying comments, well in my humble opinion, was the one asking him why the chocolate factories have closed. Poor man was waiting and waiting on a reply on that one, so much so he was putting off finishing the live, he was seriously curious, only to have this stupid ass punch line about him being sweet. From the expression on his face when he finally read the answer he was probably thinking "this is what I was waiting for?", lol.

JM's asked about his skin care routine to which he answers: "it's nothing, I just wash up, and I just apply it on my face. Just the cream". Thing is later on as he's closing up he says he has to go wash up but:

Curious.

Didn't he just tell us all about it earlier? Or was this him just being cheeky?

JM tells us he goes for a run in the middle of the night and runs into RM.

Quite interesting that the first time he noticed RM's poster was almost 2 weeks after it was placed there. Especially now that we know from him he's out jogging every night. Was he possibly away for a while? Perhaps not alone?

JM was asked about dramas he's watched and answered he hasn't watched many lately.

I guess JK being busy is the cause for that. We know for a fact that they watch shows together.

Then he's asked "show your 7 tattoos", to which JM answers:

"You saw it yesterday. Photos went up. Really...I saw that...Definitely...I'm an anchovy." giggle giggle giggle. "Anchovy...phew..." giggle..."just laugh at it and move on..."

Lol, I'm sure he's also referring to him standing on his tippie toes for the pose, trying to seem bigger and taller than he is.

Now wait a second here.

The comment asked him to show his 7 tattoos. Not "show your moon tattoo". Not "show your back tattoo". Clear as day talking about his 7 tattoos, and JM was the one to read it out!!!

So, obviously that riske (not really, but clearly an eye opener) photo he posted for JK's birthday was on his mind. Or is it more so that JK is on his mind?

JM's told he needs to sleep well. The man says it's rare, but he actually slept well today. Usually when he has schedules he doesn't sleep well. But:

I guess something, or someone, helped tire him out.

And yes, I can hear the guys on the balcony with the "if he slept so much he couldn't have been with JK". Yeah-nah. Have we not seen these guys schedules? Did I not talk about it in part 1? Night and day are non existent. JM slept 8 to 9 hours and came out - to his schedule, in the evening. These two go to sleep in the morning and wake up at noon. Even in JM's last live, when he was talking about having a proper schedule, including a proper sleep schedule, he was talking about sleeping in late. So no, him sleeping properly doesn't rule out them spending the night together. JM doesn't tell us when he went to sleep or when he woke up. Actually, the way he words it, it's more like he slept till late and woke up in time for his Dior schedule.

Pretty much this was where JM was wanting to end the live.

And starts to sum it up.

After a few more comments JM winds it up saying his goodbyes.

And that was the end of JM's live on JK 's birthday.

Oh, btw, remember I said that when I first saw JM's live photo I mistook it for JK? How those pants seemed a little big on him? Well came across this today:

I'm not 100% sold those are the exact pair of pants, but they sure look similar. And even if they aren't same pants, well my point in part 1 was proven - the pants being exactly the style that JK wears.

I had one more thing I wanted to talk about, which I'm not sure about, but thought it would be good to mention.

About the 12 minute mark JM is talking about taking lessons in English. And he was saying it's hard but he has to force himself to do it, cause otherwise he won't do it. And then he talks about how people get lazy and gives an example. And here is where I found something a little curious. There I go with that word again.

The word of the day: Curious.

Anyway, JM gives an example. And he words it like this:

"You know there is this. I came home as it is like this... It's 9:07... I think that I should wash up at 9:30... But we don't wash up... And later, when it's 1 in the morning... I should really wash up. To sleep...I must wash up. You also know this happens".

And he's giggling the whole time.

Did you notice? The switch from I to we?

Now, it could be him talking about him and us, but I kind of don't think it was, as he starts with I and goes to we and then back to I.

It could also definitely be a slip of the tongue.

You know who the we he might be talking about is. That plus one that turns I to we. That certain plus one that has told us on multiple occasions how he dislikes to wash up before sleep, delaying the inevitable as much as possible, also using that term lazy with regards to it.

Just thought I'd share this little thing I notices with you guys before I finish up with this post.

I feel like this part of my post is a little more all over the place (a bit like JM perhaps, lol). Maybe a little too much blurry and not enough sharp, lol. But hey, I guess it is what it is.

So, we had JK doing the short live nothing like his usual birthday lives, and then later in the day JM coming live, unplanned. Well more so unplanned from home. Could they have been planning to do a live together at Hybe? Could JK have been planning to and asked JM to go live in his place seeing he's held up?

Who knows.

What I do hope is that next time it's not going to be the two live on the same day, but rather the two live same day same time same place.

Here's wishing.