#necromancers and biohazards

[carrotcouple]

A lot of people have been asking about the OCs in this post. So I made an obligatory doodle of the main characters and am doing a quick explanation in this post.

These are the main characters from my fairly new OC story which is currently fondly under the placeholder name #necromancers and biohazards. Anyways it's an urban fantasy story with many many different kinds of people (people???? beings???). The protagonists are a group of definitely not sane morally gray idiotic housemates who are fully under govt. scrutiny because two of them were accused of having created a deadly bioengineered plague of sorts that's been killing everyone.

Alright, quick run down of the characters!

First off! Enxo (They/Them) Enxo is a no good, morally off necromancer who got turned into a vampire against their will. They sell "life insurance" of a sort by saying they'll resurrect someone if they die. Enxo is a devil may care biochemist as well and has a strangely large amount of charisma. They were accused of creating the bioengineered disease along with their best friend Qing.

Secondly, Livie (She/Her). Livie used to be a government worker but then was falsely accused of a crime and was kicked out and ostracized. She lost her home and no one who she used to know wants to associate with her. Ren picked her off the streets and brought her over. And since everyone in the house minded their own business and treated her fairly well, she stayed. She's a goodie two shoes and tries to keep her housemates out of obvious illegal nonsense.

Thirdly, Monhir (They/Them). Monhir is an undead abomination. They died(?) after contracting the bioengineered plague, but because of what they were before they died, they didn't exactly die and instead became...that. They're weird, they're a hazard and they've got colorful personality. Monhir drinks all the vanilla essence in the fridge, sleeps under other people's beds and crab walks(?) around the house.

Fourth, Qing (He/Him). Qing is Enxo's best friend, partner in crime, enabler and also their voice of reason. Qing is probably the only reason Enxo is even alive right now. With a good head on his shoulders and much nerdiness in the way of biotechnology, he makes sure everyone knows when to hit the accelerator and also the breaks. He also thinks Enxo is an idiot.

Fifth, Ren (They/Them). Ren is a bit crazy. Ren loves gossip and sparkles. They work at a party store for most of their day, but then spends the rest of their time listening to gossip and gathering information. This has led to them being one of the most valuable information assets in the country. Oh yeah they also like fuzzy slippers and adopt people way too frequently. They were stopped from bringing people home permanently after Livie. This doesn't mean they don't bring people over for dinner.

Sixth, Ytal (She/Her). Ytal is a mercenary and also an assassin if she's paid enough (Livie doesn't know this). She's never allowed to do anything around the house because of the brute force she's capable of. She's broken too many lightbulbs. She's also cursed and so will sometimes just throw up blood and pass out. Enxo has her on several different meds to manage this though and she pays them a hefty amount by acquiring random body parts for experimentation (Livie once again does not know this).

And lastly, Zayn (He/Him). Zayn is a bit of a mystery. None of his housemates know about who he used to be before he started living with them. (To be honest, they could all find out but none of them care to look into it). Zayn used to be a popular celebrity who would smuggle people in and out of countries so that they could find refuge in other countries away from wars and more. However, several countries found out about this so he changed his identity and is now living a quiet and uncomplicated life (aside from the random life threatening explosion he faces for rooming right next to Qing and Enxo's lab).

The story kinda focuses on the bioengineered disease and everything surrounding it. Enxo is technically the main character which I love them for. They're fantastic. A lot of this story is still under development but yeah. That's all. Will probably post more stuff of them at some point! Thanks for tuning in.

[system-redux]

CLANG

'NECRO I TOLD YOU TO WASH THE DISHES TODAY' 'WHY DO I HAVE TO WE DON'T EVEN EAT'

[silverwarewolf]

DUNGEON MESHI EPISODE 24 THOUGHTS

Oh, I had asked to see what the party's thoughts regarding the changeling situation were, especially when it came to their lifespans, but I didn't think it would turn out like this!

GOOD FUCKING JOB, CHILCHUCK. YOU'VE TRAUMATIZED MARCILLE EVEN FURTHER. Oh but I do so love the horrors of this situation of theirs. Marcille babygirl I would like to hug you and have a nice chat.

Anywya, on we go to think about Falin and any solutions that might help us here. Which is great! I love how much foreshadowing there is (in terms of what I've been vaguely told about the manga).

Laios Touden's problem solving skills, everyone.

That's honestly the SICKEST weapon design, I'm so on board with you Laios. This could be Kensuke's Halloween makeover. BUT DONT JUST TAKE THOSE MUSHROOMS WITH YOU OH MY GOD

... was this the opening sequence foreshadowing everyone was freaking out about? was that it? (don't actually tell me, though. if it was it, say yes. if it wasn't, don't say anything)

no comment here I just love them.

I just will never get used to elfshi's hands being Like That. But it's also kinda nice to see him and Izutsumi working along so nicely! Like, don't even get me started on how Izu is presented as the pickiest eater of the party (Marcille has been dethroned severely) and usually you'd see that presented as a Hassle, but here in DM, Senshi doesn't even bat an eye. He knows and respects Izutsumi's tastes and preferences and works his meals out around it! That's such a based thing for him to do. <3

This is a renaissance painting. (I love it when they adapt Ryoko Kui's visual gags and I LOVE when she does zoomed in faces like this. Truly one of the artists ever)

I did not have "Laios gets Pissed On" on my bingo card but every day I grow more and more convinced that the animators KNOW what they're doing and - OH MY GOD IS THAT SENSHI'S DWUSSY. ELFSHI ALTERNATIVE TO PANTY SHOT.

Ah, yes, Izutsumi sprawls all over them when sleeping, we been knew, again it's a little unexpected to see it front and center but I guess it works to demonstrate them returning to - THAT WAS LAIOS??? AND CHILCHUCK IS JUST LIFTING HIS LEG LIKE THAT?? OKAY THEN. SURE.

(and then there's a few more seconds of laiosfoot and laios bedhead)

BUT HEY THEY'RE BACK TO NORMAL

1) Yep, they're back to normal.

2) Laios I love you and I love Gothsuke but someone needs to be careful about biohazards and it's not going to be you.

3) Add this to the "Marcille Donato gets threateningly close to you in three steps" folder.

4) Truly only they can match each other's freak. When the NECROMANCER is telling you not to do something, don't do it! I know last time you smuggled a "normal" sword, it turned out to be useful, but I'm sure that's not the case here!

5) Poor Laios tho. I'll learn to blacksmith just to give you a cool sword. <3

I'm so glad they kept this. One of the silliest touden siblings moments. 10/10 no notes. Also, Falin is never beating the blunt force trauma allegations.

IS THAT CHILCHUCK'S WIFE. ARE YOU - MA'AM. HELLO?

"Why aren't you a twink like I thought you'd be?!" gets adapted! (I'm pretty sure that's the scene meant to be here, anyways)

I get it, girl.

Oh dear, they're going to eat Falin. And SENSHI was the one to suggest it! For a guy who was just fighting the doubts of accidental cannibalism a week ago, you're taking bold steps forward.

(I do love how it mirrors Laios' kindness back then, in truth. Even if it's an idea so shocking and dire at first, it comes from a place of reason and logic and love)

Marcille "I said I wanted to eat her OUT, not eat HER" Donato Izutsumi "That's going to taste gross as fuck" Izutsumi Chilchuck "If it brings her back..." Tims Laios Touden, the man with a thousand things on his head right now, two of which I reckon are "I don't want to eat my sister" and "Dragon-Chicken... what might it taste like?"

Yes, well. Valid as your concerns are, Laios, because how the fuck would five people eat THAT much meat, you can't just ramble on about what dishes you're going to make out of your sister.

(...I get it, though. I mean if you're going to eat, might as well make it good, right? I know no one wants to grill one of Faligon's ribs but I'll go ahead and say it would be worse to tell them to eat her raw)

FUCK! we DID lose those scenes about the twin bell that toshiro kept!! forever sad about that.

oh my godddd they're going back into the dungeonnn we're going to reunite with themmm

I know they're really fucking competent, I mean, Namari and Toshiro are already described as pretty formidable warriors (and we've seen it), and Kabru is... admittedly much more geared to fight humans but he's a decent fighter either way. And a good leader!

Speaking of, where the fuck is everyone else.

I know they're meant to be scary (and I suppose they are! If we have the reference that, firstly, marcille is an excellent spellcaster so these elves could be just as good in their own areas of expertise, yes?, and secondly, the canaries are Well Known)

... plus, Namari, Toshiro and Kabru are wary of them. Namari, Toshiro and Kabru are wary of them.

BUT damn it Lycion, I need to- (gets dragged off stage)

Anyway, while we wait for the next season (WHICH HAS BEEN GREENLIT! WOHOO!), have these wonderful images of chicken falin being a cathedral painting (...if cathedrals ever added dragons, i guess) and my beloveds, who have finally returned!

[t3chborb]

With a bit of sculpting experience under my belt, I felt like making the first 3 orbs took way too long, so I tried making the other 3 all at once. Sculpting 3 at the same time, carving 3 at the same time, sanding 3 at the same time, etc etc. Turns out that is absolutely the better strategy :P

Sooo yeah, with Necromancer, Biohazard, and Diesel Baron orbs done at once, that means that as far as I'm concerned, my little Ramattra orb collection is done :P They're all definitely messy (the base skin one, the first one I've made somehow turned out the best of the bunch), but aren't they just charming together~

[statuetochka]

I have a predicament, between the necromancer vs the biohazard, which is better?

i personally prefer biohazard, i love his silly little face :3

[korpuskat]

Since necromancer is the meanest and roughest one, who do you think is the nicest and gentlest? :3

Default LMAO

No, but he only has, what? Necromancer, Biohazard, and Poseidon? i will not address that thing that just came out (where is his hair?).

Poseidon and Canon Ramattra might be a close call, but I think Poseidon's being literally immortal vs Ramattra's guilt of hurting humans tips in Ramattra's favor.

[pacific-rimbaud]

Hello PR! I’m curious, do you think Ron has even an iota of resentment for Draco in LaOHA? He’s aware of what’s keeping him and Hermione apart. I know he’s moved on and is seeing someone else, but I can’t escape the idea of him feeling something when the news break that D & H are together.

He would definitely be sad and would process some hurt and probably a lot of questions and doubt, but I don't think he'd be angry. Not wanting to hurt Ron is like 50% of Hermione's resistance to giving in to D & H's 1804 dynamic, and that's a testament to her character and kindness. But Ron and Hermione's break-up was mutual: mutually sad, and a mutual relief.

Did I ever post the opening part of the 3rd chapter of Squirrel Trouble (RIP) on Tumblr? Even if I did, here it is below the break. It takes place in January iirc (the main part of laoha happens in July).

Tl;dr, I think Ron's fine. Bruised, but it would be less time before he'd be ready for a beer with Draco than you'd think.

Rough as hell Squirrel Trouble snippet below the cut!

Neville pushed through the door of Auror Headquarters at half-past midnight with a rolled towel squeezed under his arm. The room was dim and almost vacant.

Ankles crossed atop a jumbled stack of case files, Cormac leaned back at his desk with his arms folded over his chest. His eyes appeared to be open, but a droning snore indicated he was asleep behind a Disillusionment charm.

Ron had returned from Manchester, and sat on his desk in the room's far corner. He slouched forward, offering his forehead to Katie Bell, who stood between his parted knees.

Hands glowing faint blue under a gloving spell, she dabbed at a deep red gash over his right eyebrow.

“What do you mean it was small?” she asked. “Like, short?”

“It wasn't just short, it was sort of—” Ron winced and drew back.

“You alright?

“I’m fine, yeah, just stings quite a bit. Anyway, it was just . . . small.”

She took his chin in her hand and held it in place. “What I’m hearing from you is that you’ve been thrashed by a child.”

“It wouldn’t characterize it as a thrashing,” said Ron.

“What age are we talking about here?” she asked. “Average ten year-old? Toddler?” She tossed the gauze into a red biohazard bin sitting on Ron’s desk.

She and Ron both looked up at the sound of the door clicking shut behind Neville.

“Merlin, Nev,” Katie said. “You like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

She wasn’t dressed for duty, but rather leggings and an oversized hoodie with a purple and gold coat of arms and the words Mettleworth College embroidered on the chest. Her damp hair sat twisted in a loose mass high on her head.

“You didn’t need to stay and do this,” Ron said to her.

Katie dipped her gloved finger into a pot of salve.

“Shall I wake up McLaggen and have him take over?” she asked.

“Fuck no.”

“That’s what I thought.” She daubed the ointment over the cut. It dulled from ghastly red to dark purple, and then slowly paled to pink.

“Is this the skeleton that was giving people heart attacks on purpose up North?” With great care, Neville lay the towel on his own desk, then stretched his arm over his head, tugging at a deep ache blossoming under his ribcage on the left-hand side.

“That’s the one.” Ron jutted his chin forward.

“I thought you weren’t in tonight, Katie,” said Neville.

“I wasn’t.” She slid a fingertip beneath Ron’s chin and tipped it up. ��Robards ended up needing another female officer to support on-site body searches at the necromancers bust. I’d only just come out of the showers when this one came through the door dripping blood everywhere.”

“How were the necromancers?” Neville asked.

“Macabre.” She cleaned a weeping abrasion on Ron’s chin and smoothed a dollop of ointment over it. “All done. Now go home to your girlfriend, she’s probably fretting about you.”

“Aren’t physical searches a bit beneath your pay grade?” Ron asked, retrieving his tie from the desk and folding it in halves.

“Sadly,” she said, “I’ve learned that nothing is beneath anyone’s pay grade in this department.”

“You want to join us at lads’ night tomorrow?

Katie ended the gloving spell and looked at Ron skeptically.

“Lads’ night,” she repeated. “What’s that about, then?”

“We head over to the Barley Besom for trivia. Take turns buying rounds. Have a few laughs.”

Katie crossed her arms and looked at Neville. “Do I seem like the sort of lad who would enjoy lads’ night, Nev?”

“Absolutely.” Neville cupped a hand behind his head and stretched his neck forward. "You'd have a great time.”

“Excellent,” said Katie. “Nice to know I’m the right sort of fellow.”

“Oh! It’s not that...” Ron frowned. “Truly. Any kind of lad. Shit, I don’t mean—”

“No, please. Keep digging. Just—” she pantomimed chucking a spade over her shoulder. “I do enjoy watching a man put his back into his work.”

Ron pleaded silently with Neville from across the room.

“Moira McEathron and her wife have been coming,” said Neville.

“Oh! You take girl lads, then?” A smile was gaining ground at the corners of her mouth.

“We are especially welcoming to girl lads.” Ron’s shoulders resumed their typical slouch. “But we do like talking Quidditch. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“I despise Quidditch and never speak of it.”

“I know that, yes,” said Ron. “Explains why I’m in a hot bath straight away every Saturday after trying to keep up with you during sprints.”

“I actually don’t…” Neville let the sentiment drift away. He did not particularly enjoy talking about Quidditch, but the time in his life for announcing that seemed to have passed. “Since I’ve got a Curse-Breaker here,” he said to Katie, “Only if you’ve got a moment, of course, but I’m not quite sure what to do with this in the short term.”

He slowly unfolded the towel on his desk.

Ron and Katie stared.

“Is that…” Katie began.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Longbottom?” Cormac had woken up, and sat up with his arms over his head, having a yawn and a good stretch. “Did you get a dog?”

Neville looked down at the prone form inside the towel.

“No,” he said. “It’s a squirrel.”

[corvidcrybaby]

EXTREME METAL SUBGENRE AESTHETICS FOR NEWBIES

death metal: rusted meat hooks and spent shell casings. mortuary fumes and dried bloodstains on barbed wire. blood gushing from broken noses and shattered teeth. hordes of zombies pounding at the doors and windows. necromancers cackling over occult rituals as their flesh melts from the bone. black metal: corpses frozen standing up in an arctic wasteland. whispering spirits of dead travelers beckoning humans to their doom. violent blizzards smothering mountain cabins. distant wails of damned souls in catacombs dripping with fetid water. hissing breath behind your ear, only to find nothing when you turn to look. hooded figures chanting in rasping, rattling tongues about an occult sigil, summoning creatures of untold fathoms. grindcore: burnt tire rubber and vehicular manslaughter. screams of wrongfully imprisoned asylum inmates, locked away for political dissidence. torn vocal chords. squatters' dens in abandoned industrial infrastructure. biohazard needles left in piles of junk in abandoned factories. warehouses with roofs caved in. the stench of pollutant smog and toxic waste belched into public water supply. resistance even in death.

[fuckyeahchiptune]

James aka CalmDownKidder plays the latest chiptune tracks, talks about upcoming shows and some tech news! This week was a BANDCAMP FRIDAY special, playing nothing but Bandcamp tracks!

Valden - Vroume - cyanide dansen limitation de vitesse rmx https://valdenchiptune.bandcamp.com/album/vroume

TheDuccinator - Mars Bar on Mars https://theduccinator.bandcamp.com/album/something-something-tracks

bash explode - nostalgia per minute https://bashexplode.bandcamp.com/track/nostalgia-per-minute

Archipelago Soundsystem - Nyabo'z organ'z (Trey Frey original edit) https://finestylewest.bandcamp.com/album/archipelago-soundsystem-speed-goth-dubz-10-super-extended-play

utsuho - Synth Traveller https://utsuho.bandcamp.com/album/synth-traveler

Tobikomi - Dormant https://tobikomi.bandcamp.com/album/tobikomis-best-of-furnace-2k22

Space Town - Dusk https://spacetown.bandcamp.com/album/if-you-had-known

2xAA - Biohazard https://2xaa.bandcamp.com/track/biohazard

DEFENSE MECHANISM - Laundry Quadrant https://nosidesrecords.bandcamp.com/album/defense-mechanism-goto80-split

GOTO80 - Elektro Argo https://nosidesrecords.bandcamp.com/album/defense-mechanism-goto80-split

newlife+ - dream;Gate (ft. azuria sky) https://newlifeplus.bandcamp.com/album/dream-gate-ft-azuria-sky

isocore - Northern FM https://isocore.co.uk/album/clear

Alice Knows Karate - She's Got Legs, You Idiot https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJQVWXmyJ9M https://aliceknowskarate.bandcamp.com/album/fablewave-deluxe

Soft Toss - Theme for Dog https://outergrid.bandcamp.com/album/soff-toss

SuperJet Spade - NeoStar Raceway https://superjet-spade.bandcamp.com/album/superjet-spade-music-collection-2020-2021

DJ Diskmachine - DRL https://djdiskmachine.bandcamp.com/album/00-drl

fallinginmotion - Feel Alive https://fallinginmotion.bandcamp.com/album/cleanse

Bodaciously Kamek - Gray Monolith (Shock and Awe Ed.) https://bodaciouslykamek.bandcamp.com/track/gray-monolith-shock-and-awe-ed

Max Tundra - Lights 2023 https://maxtundra.bandcamp.com/album/lights-2023

ne7 - Gimme Some Sugar https://ne77en.bandcamp.com/album/amiga-archive-ep-1

Starmint - Incompatible Funk https://starmint.bandcamp.com/album/planeskippers

chunter - Colonial Groove Inspection https://chunter.bandcamp.com/album/colonial-groove-inspection

3xBlast - I'm A Necromancer Who Summoned A Skeleton Now I'm In Love!? https://3xblast.bandcamp.com/album/im-a-necromancer-who-summoned-a-skeleton-now-im-in-love

Sloopygoop - Nite Hiway https://sloopygoop.bandcamp.com/album/pre-teen-wasteland

Iron Curtain - Mama (feat. MEIKO) https://ironcurtain.bandcamp.com/album/mama-feat-meiko

Nullsleep - Motion Map (Feel The Rhythm) https://nullsleep.bandcamp.com/album/liminal-zones-vol-2

/// Upcoming Shows https://twitter.com/chiptuneshows

https://chiptune.chat/ Thursdays 7pm (UK Time)

logo + stream graphics by https://wendymurphy.online/

[meowtalhead]

*necromancer voice* bro STOP that's so gross ugh go outside and lay in the dirt until you're all clean and not a biohazard we TALKED about this dude we can play mario kart later

[theouroborosart]

Cyberpunk AU Weald/Ruins

Weald Despite government orders for military clone models, contract employees were still much cheaper. A special program called "Heaven" was offered for them. For the rent of their own body by the state for military purposes, those who wished were given the opportunity to place their consciousness in virtual reality, their own little paradise, in which they could arrange anything and communicate with anyone from people connected to the network. For many, such a life was the best solution, an escape from the problems of an unfriendly world. A person who agreed to this procedure was losing control over his body in the real world, taken over by commands from control systems, usually called "The Marks". In the inactive time, the bodies were stored in tanks with a special chemical composition, while the host's consciousness was in virtuality. But during the blackout, the Heavens fell, and the minds of the people in it were erased forever. Following unknown orders from the Darkness, their unconscious bodies have awakened from their slumber and for some reason are now wandering around one of the city's districts. Hag A scientist who for some time worked with an Ancestor on the composition of a complex chemical combination of drugs that can practically stop the process of muscle atrophy, and even aging of the body immersed in them. The Ancestor needed this combination to keep the clones preserved as long as possible. The Hag directed this research into the possibility of a long-term transfer of consciousness into virtuality. The use of test samples of combination greatly affected her body and mind, and due to the constant jumps between reality and virtuality, she completely lost the line of differences between them. The Ancestor broke the cooperation contract with her, and the army bought out the project. Brigand Pounder Bandits are everywhere, and this city is no exception. At a time when rumors of the Ancestor's illegal activities in the field of artificial intelligence were gaining momentum, he hired one of the criminal groups to intimidate and get rid of journalists or other overly active residents of the city. But it was this gang that was most often called military deserters, engaged in sales of stolen military weapons.. One of their exemplars is really impressive. Rumors says that when the city was in chaos, they returned to their favorite activity and went to one of the military warehouses. Ruin The invention of a chemical mixture for long-term storage of clones created a lot of prospects for the Ancestor. In the old district of the city, he planned to launch the production of clones with a large number of mechanical implants and then sell them to the future users of Heaven's transfer of consciousness so they can move into a much more useful robotic body, which would increase their survival rate in war. But the project did not pay for itself. Now the assembly machines, awakened by the cybervirus, disembowel the bodies of clones that have not yet awakened, and sometimes the inhabitants of the city, assembling an army of combat robots from parts of implants. Necromancers To implement his idea of mechanized bodies, the Ancestor invited a group of foreign scientists to work. Since the creation of combat robots was prohibited at the state level, the Ancestor needed to automate the process to prevent bad rumors from spreading among the staff and to not attract attention. After the scientists have completed their work, the Ancestor decided to kill them as the last witnesses and start the production process. Prophet A recognized journalist with a solid reputation, usually working for the Light. He began to raise questions in the media about the Hamlet corporation, surprisingly knowledgeable of its activities. As a result, after several unsuccessful attempts at assassination, the Ancestor offers the Prophet during a personal meeting to interview the AI himself as a journalist. AI locks the Prophet's mind in virtuality forever, leaving his body only to madness. And, for some inexplicable reason, the construct of the Prophet's personality settled in a large machine in the old city after the blackout, broadcasting about the imminent destruction of humanity. @apply-force-too-begin You asked about Paracelsus in this AU.  While studying in medical university to become a pharmacist, she gained interest in the research in the field of chemical weapons and broke the rules by doing tests on her colleague. She was quikly expelled from the university and became one of the backstreet doctors who make flash bombs, biohazard weapons and medpacks to sell to criminals and thugs, as well as provide them with medical care for less than the corporations charge.

[carrotcouple]

Incredibly awkward when your morally off necromancer vampire housemate confesses their feelings to you by saying they would murder billions just after you've contracted the plague.

Anyway, say hello to Enxo (they/them) and Livie (she/her) from an urban fantasy story that's been living in my head rent free without me actually putting anything down for over a year and a half. I think I thought of them after Halloween 2022. That was a while ago.

[system-redux]

clonk

will draw this later

[honourablejester]

You know in fantasy rpgs and the like, you’re going from Point A to Point B, it’s a forty odd mile journey or whatever, and depending on the area you’re passing through and whether you’re quick-travelling or not, you kill, say, three or four monsters and a bandit outfit along the way?

I always wondered, who cleans up all the bodies afterwards?

I mean, in video games usually the corpses conveniently vanish/dissolve into light &/ loot immediately after you kill them. And some specific types of monster corpses more or less take care of themselves anyway. But presuming a universe where the gods don’t handily poof all earthly remains upon a violent death … Actually, that is a cool idea for a universe, but howandever … Are the roads in certain areas of this world just lined with bandit/monster/adventurer corpses? Is it considered social etiquette to bury and/or burn your enemies after you’ve killed them? Is this etiquette enforced? Are roadside areas considered graveyards by default? Are there basically highway patrols, but on corpse-retrieval duty? Does the largest town/village in the area send out their undertakers every so often to clean up? Is there a local undertaker/necromancer/exorcist guild that exclusively handles roadside contracts? Does the local religion handle it? A mix of all of the above, depending on area and local authority?

IDK, I just find some of the implications of it fascinating. Is there a thriving roadside necromancy industry? Conversely, is there like a National Roads Authority cleric position where your entire job is just to dispel ghosts and hauntings along roadsides? Does the local cheap-ass alchemy/apothecary/mage guild, the ones who can’t afford to actually hire adventurers to go kill monsters for them, have a standing bribe set up with the body wagon drivers to save them the best (remaining) monster corpse bits? Is there religious/social controversy over the treatment of mass remains? Is there like a bandit union, where for a certain regular percent of profits, they will go out and retrieve your body for you and deal with it respectfully if you get murdered by the adventuring-party-du-jour?

I mean, maybe the corpses are just left there for nature and/or the local monster population to deal with, but … you know. Biohazard much? If every road trip I go on has a body count of a half-dozen or so, at least, and I’m one of who knows how many adventurers on the go out there … Leaving aside the morality of it, that’s a lot of bodies, is all I’m saying.

(I’m also leaving aside questions here about population regeneration and where the hell all these bandits are coming from and what the line between adventurer and bandit actually is and at what point do you consider your civilisation officially collapsed and whether it’s the point where you DO have a regular roadside mass slaughter body collection system set up or the point where you clearly need one and DON’T ... Is it just me or is a lot of high/heroic fantasy pretty much accidentally post-apocalyptic, at least in implication?)

Anyway. This was your random overthinking things post for the day! We now return you to your regularly scheduled body collection programming!

[ongoingaccident-deleted]

Give it up for the character insults! Pick whoever, but I want many! XD

OH BOY

thank you so much for this i’m going to enjoy it. i got a little carried away.

i apologize in advance if these are uh not good i think i’m a lot funnier than i actually am. i have also given up on. actual sentences and grammar.

also apologize for the fact that some of these aren’t really insults. but they are fun! :D

Aellai Darrell - idiot. i mean. idiot. please stop throwing yourself face first into everything that wants to kill you. i mean really. just. absolute dumbass.

Raewyn Corellius - has no friends, just daedra. no wonder her moms sent her far, far away.

Evelyne Antonius - honestly these jokes just write themselves. literally a drunk necromancer. i don’t even need to say anything.

Ziapiel - tiny. so tiny. could squash her like a bug. that’s a really terrifying image. needs horns to be taller than anyone else. still shorter. shrimp.

Larandel - a THOT. also a Dres so there’s that. which is an insult in and of itself. please don’t tell her i told you. i will die.

Tamera Light-Bringer - a literal fanatic. hears strange voices and unquestioningly follows them. unironically likes meridia. has never heard of a brush.

Lyra Darrell - feral goblin. cares more about keeping her hair nice than the fate of the world, probably.

Mizuki - even more of a feral goblin. literally the unluckiest person alive. afraid of water. who the fuck is afraid of water.

Damiana - i don’t even know if it’s possible to insult her. smears blood on her face like an absolute sociopath. absolute biohazard. unstable.

Alvena - stuck-up. which is ironic for an altmer who worships a mortal god. terrible taste in other people.

Astraia - hopeless. probably couldn’t find her way out of a box. desperately needs help.

Altaire - also a thot. doesn’t know what shame is. would do anything (one?) for like... half a septim. reckless. please get standards.

Adelaide Darrell - needs to learn how to say no to people. would get pushed around by a limp noodle.

Zenaide - absolute dumbass. literal poster child for dumb jock. why the fuck would you consume hist sap. why would you think that was a good idea.

Emylynn - beats people to death with a stick. please see a therapist. pretty please.

Aralyn - the most feral goblin of all. seems to think biting is socially acceptable. afraid of 99.9999% of people. the coward.

Jaede - ?????????????? speaks for itself tbh. needs to stop playing golf with skulls.

Ashe - when you try your best but you don’t succeed. would probably blow herself up accidentally.

Zanthe - absolute ditz. couldn’t fight her way out of a paper bag. really, really bad taste in romantic partners.

Asenath - small and angry. teeny tiny. possibly having serious hallucinations. absolutely no clue what she’s doing. has never flexed her ‘decent person’ muscle.

thank you so much for this it was a ton of fun!!! hope you enjoyed reading at least a little bit, even if i’m not as funny as i’d like to be :’)

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch: In Profundis

Dawn clambered over the LA quarantine like a wearied soldier storming a hill – the hill that has become the burning bosom of the Gay-Transgender. Since NASA identified God in the night sky, flying toward earth to assess His children, society has been thrust into a state of nihilistic chaos. The Christians rejoice, and the Gay plot on how to turn Him over to their wickedness. The Transgenitalists, banned from public restrooms, desecrate suburban streets with their bodily fluids in an expression of protest, making neighborhoods where once children could freely get hit by cars while playing Pokémon Go into a biohazard.

(God, who is due to arrive this summer, is shooting through space right now.)

Morning threw these degenerates into relief as they staggered over the pavement of Duplass Avenue and into oncoming traffic, waving stolen underwear on long strips of decrepit building vinyl: the art gallery spinsters who invented Mitski; adults who cosplay as memes; “grandfathers” who loiter in the Youth Bibles section of book stores; and, most troublingly, the bodies of fallen straights, levitating up through the storm drains on the wands of gay necromancers – in short, the entire Green Party – were only the first denizens I encountered along the harrowing road to James Franco’s homo-cidal circus. Everywhere, there were the remnants of bar food and suspicious in-laws. All this was the plutonic vision which greeted my trusted correspondent and I as we strode heterosexfully down the block.

Paragon Shag beside me had not been the same since our eviction from the House of Those Motherfuckers Who Wear Sandals. Only the whiff of pedicure oils on a passing European businessman would send him into such extravagant declamations on the aesthetics of marginalization that I would be impelled to beat the fuck out of him.

“Shag,” I spoke unto him as we arrived at our destination, the Villa de Hermaphrodita, that crypt of human bipedalism. “What is this stench wafting from your chest?”

“Deodorant,” said he.

“I fear for you, Shag. You are aware that deodorant is a witch’s brew intended to inculcate children into the homosexual lifestyle.” He knew as I did that those who use it too much become ravenous beasts, mere British culture journalists, addicted to the scent of Orientalism and male crying.

“Precisely so. We cannot allow ourselves to be overtaken by those limping nancies. With this, we shall confuse their predatory instincts.” And just then, a furious piss communist passed us by, navigating by the odor of listless pretension to James Franco. “You see?” said Shag, turning to me suddenly. He took my arm in the manner of the Romans, up to my elbow. “We are brothers, Mr. Butch, and not in a YouTube Red sort of way, nor in the sense that two different-looking male roommates claim to be, nor in the manner of college boys who make out at strangers’ house parties and tell everyone that it’s part of their fraternity hazing ritual, nor like bohemian male friends who have a large age gap in a hot way, nor indeed like the Quakers, who we all realize developed oatmeal as a gateway to eating spunk.”

He spoke prettily, and I could do nothing but convert my doubt into glorious masculinity. We had come to investigate Franco, after all, whom we suspected of creating twinks to try to turn himself gayer.

We entered the villa -- and there he was, directly before us, barefaced and shockingly confident for a man who looks like a toilet squeegee, licking chocolate off the thighs of a servant boy. James Franco: provocateur of the Gay and war poet of their slick uprising against biological persons.

“Wow,” he greeted us running a hand through his hair. “This is, like, crazy. I haven’t been tag-teamed by two bears since I was on the set of Milk. Did you come to see how I kidnap women and transform them into twinks to make myself gayer?”

We were speechless before this display of arrogance, but Franco’s attention had already been diverted. The servant boy’s epaulet had come unbuttoned.

“Well,” said Franco, hooking him by the shoulders, “the evidence is piling up, huh?”

“Sir?”

“Tell me,” Franco mewled in a squalid attempt to sound erotic, “while you’re existing in a state of, like, untroubled happiness because of straight privilege, do you ever wonder how it feels to have ornery fetish sex with glamorous-yet-blasé strangers every second of your life like the Gay-Transgender are expected to do?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, now you’ll have nothing but time for that, man – as the newest member of the Heterosexual Circus.” Turning mercurially, as if astonished to discover that Shag and I had not moved, Franco addressed us. Raising his arms, he shouted, “Birth is Death! Reason is Treason! Empiricism is Imperialism!”

We could not bear to witness the poor boy’s torture by being forced to be bad at dancing in front of gay perverts. As Shag and I shuffled back onto the street, idly kicking the shit out of a taxi that had parked on the sidewalk, I was emasculated by a notion unrelated to the sweating power of my manhood: that we had not heard the last of these frightful slogans.

*******************************************************************************************

It did not take long for us to find a trap door at the other side of the villa, under a cypress tree. It was locked, but not for a man. Reducing it to smithereens with a mere touch of my beard to it, we descended into a lively disco club where, clinging to the shadows, we moved about curiously. There was in one of the dance-floor cages a sight which startled us.

“Gayflame!” called Shag. “Reddie Gayflame!”

“It’s just Sexchaynge now,” she whispered above the music, on the verge of tears because her body was undergoing a dramatic change.

“But, Sexchaynge,” Shag advanced fretfully, leaving enough distance so as not to be endangered by her femininity, “I thought you were a Gay as well.”

“I was, but I gave it up. You see, I believe in doing things as hard as I can, like Hugh Dancy -- but I knew that I would never be the gayest of all. Not while Ben Whishaw still has a career as an international sex fae... So, why not become a transgender instead, I thought to myself, since there’s less competition?”

Shag nodded sagely.

“Anyway, there is somebody else here that you ought to meet. Follow me.”

My correspondent and I were led into the adjacent hallway, where loomed a misshapen yet familiar silhouette. Suddenly recognizing it, I cried out, “It is the Lord of Lust, the fluent horizontal dancer ‘himself,’ Ben Whishaw! You fiend! You devil!”

But when the vampire stepped into the light, it turned out to be only Twinkathee Charlotterampling, who is merely probably an insatiable fairy.

He threw himself into Paragon Shag’s arms, weeping. “I knew you would never go back to Italy, so I came here to find you. Oh, please say that we can stay together, Daddio. Listen, I can even help you out: Gay Franco isn’t only turning women into twinks, he is then cloning the normal homos! Next, there will be enough fit gay guys to have sex with each other, and Franco will be our only option. Then where will I get any action with men who don’t look like a rejected Muppet? It’s a direct assault on bottoms, and not the fun kind, like when Benedict Cumberbatch gets turnt on Corvo and tries to turn my ass into Christmas lights,” spoke Timpani, gulping. “It’s against my huwoman rights.”

The dimensionless sex balloon’s discourse rained down upon me the spume of flaccid object permanence, and I was forced to rebuke him. “You skinny-jeaned Socratic, you purveyor of gay lies. Humans are not women. And the only right you have is to stop dangling your driftwood in front of every sailor you lay eyes upon. Knave!”

We resumed our progress down the hallway, the two of us and our limpid sidekicks, who stopped every so often to slather their tongues over errant broomsticks. At last, we cruised into a large room, which contained in its rear a glass chamber that held a strange, dark machine within.

“It’s the TRANSporner,” said Timpani Gayparade.

Turning to Shag, I asked, “What do you suppose it is, my macho companion? I cannot well understand the cartoon elf’s French.”

“It must be how Franco transfigures women into the Gay. My God,” Shag exclaimed, “it’s full of emo music.” Grabbing Gayparade’s weird jaw, he brought him into his line of sight so he could address him. “You – What else has Franco created?”

“He has an entire lab devoted to cloning the Gay,” Timpani laughed drily. “And it’s completely, like, impenetrable. Any man who goes in there is brainwashed into Franco’s horde. Only a woman could do it.”

“A woman?” we shouted together.

Twinkathee nodded.

“But we have so few in our warehouse. What if Franco merely kills them? We cannot afford to risk one,” Shag bemoaned.

“You see this?” Twinkathee peered up at Shag and shook his head despondently, pendulating his curls like Quentin Crisp’s spinal column. “This is only the first step. Once Franco masters cloning, the gays will be able to have orgies with themselves, and then they’ll spend eternity competing to see who can suck the most of his own dick. We can’t let God know that we ripped off twincest from Leviticus; he’ll think that we’re total fucking nerds. Shag,” Timpani huffed Frenchtastically, “I know this is the last thing you want to hear–”

“Silence, you animated meringue.”

“—but Ben Whishaw is the only homo who still dares to manufacture women. We need him.”

(A diagram of some of the unique anatomical characteristics of women.)

There was little sound then – nothing but the shaking swallow of breath and a distant applause, floating down from the circus where Franco was, variously, receiving his latest recruits. Tears of frustration had sprung up to rim Gayparade’s eyes. There was something accusatory in his gaze at my friend; such a look might have paused me in my celebrations of erectile power, if it had been produced by a man and not by a melancholy bagel fingerer.

Twinkathee lifted his chin, which surprised me because most homosexuals lose executive function of their necks by his age. “You know I’m right. And you know that you have to make him come.”

“He already has,” I interjected, “Whim Bitchaw, Colin Firth, Tom Tykwer, Patrick Stewart, and Judi Dench all at the same time. Oh, you mean come here.” I turned unto Shag, who shirked his eyes. “Why, Shag? What can this eroticized bungee cord mean?”

Slowly and with great shame, Shag reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, right above his heart, and pulled out a condom. “This – this is how we summon Ben Whishaw.”

“With a condom?”

I was surprised, but my skepticism soon changed to heroic terror as Shag tore at the wrapper with his teeth and emptied its contents onto the floor.

“Ben cannot resist the scent of a condom that is left unused. He will come now whether we want him to or not.”

Soon, Ben Whishaw came.

He came – in a flourish of glitter and sharpie tattoos -- attended by his insidious Cummunists: nudists brandishing firecrackers at uncomfortably-pretty busboys, male lingerie models, lions mounted by braless Valkyries, weeping Bavarian youths, the entire population of Barcelona, Michael Shannon, and a parade of cats, all singing “Cake” by Rihanna at the top of their lungs. BBC4 was empty that day; all the mouthwash Mary-Janes were on earth, rutting against children’s harmonicas, instilling fear in all but the most excellent specimens of manliness.

“Rejoice,” Ben Whishaw sang as his silky knees folded to the ground, chafing immediately. “Rejoice, you who have beheld the bawds of my bedchambers, the Greeks of old beachfront restaurants, the harbingers of fantasy sex tours like Ezra Miller’s career. I have come, and so shall you.” Swanning over to address Shag, he bit his lip. “Darling, I am here for you! What do you need, hot stuff?”

“Women!” he shouted manfully.

“What for? You aren’t still trying to figure out which hole is the mouth, are you?”

“Nay,” he replied, “my brother Butch told me. We need them to infiltrate Gay Franco’s hideout and destroy his cloning technology.”

“And you,” the hunch-hip padded towards me, “this is your brilliant plan? You send women to do your dirty work for you? What are you afraid of, big boy, and what can I do to ease that stress?”

“Naw, son,” called out Michael Shannon from afar, “do you want a garden salad with that skewer, or should I just serve you a knuckle sandwich?”

But Whishaw held up a slim, delicate wrist, jangling his fetish jewelry, silencing him. “I will say it to you strai—” he hacked painfully, “directly. I will give you my women, whom I had intended to use to lure fathers into a gay orgy, thereby undermining their paternal confidence. This, of course, would homosexualize the youth. But I will command them to join your cause instead... for a price.”

“Speak, elongated child!”

“Your beard,” said he.

I was struck silent.

“I need your beard,” he repeated, endless tears gathering in his eyes. “It’s for my play. The director is afraid that I’m not hairy enough to be Marilyn Monroe.”

“Why,” I puffed my chest, but it didn’t look gay or like breasts, “of all the evil perversions your kind have committed against man, this is the one that I shall never entertain to forgive.”

“That is the deal, Comrade Butch: your sublime brush for my women.”

There was no canon fire, there were no memorial barbecues where suburbanites play a game of subconsciously adulterous cat-and-mouse over the grill, for the sacrifice I made that day. Dear reader, it is a day that shall be marked forever with infamy, for that is the sin that hangs over whatever circumstance impels a straight man to give any piece of himself over to a queer Nancy. Do not mourn for Faust, do not pity Dante the Pilgrim for his travails in Hell; in the flash of a scalpel, I fell into a greater damnation than those dramatic homos could ever conceive.

*******************************************************************************************

When he had his ill-gotten prize, Ben Whishaw parted our company as he has left each of the tens of thousands of men he’s seduced around the world, with a lachrymose little smile, a wiggle of the ass, and a soliloquy on the transient beauty of tricking straight men into thinking you’re a woman until they’ve already removed their pants. Being a consummate phallic god, I was immune to his European witchcraft; Paragon Shag, I’m afraid, was somewhat awestruck by this coy display. But there was no time for either of us to dwell on his fabulous sorcery. The deal was done, and there awaited before us creatures yet almost as feminine as that enchanted nymph.  

“So,” I said, stalking around their strange mass, “these are the notorious ‘women.’” A slim shadow fell across my face, and a chill entered my heart. “Shag, what do you make of all this?”

He proceeded to inform me, “It is supposed that women were invented by the early Catholics, at the decree of the Pope.”

“The Catholics?” I interrupted him. “But what do those queers need from women? They themselves gave rise to the two cruxes of gay culture: old men who sort of cross-dress, and bottoms who think they can top.”

“Like Michael Kors,” added Shag, “but with less herpes.”

“So, what, by God, did they want with women?” Yet Shag could only shake his head. “Women!” I shouted unto them, for their ears ring incessantly from all the cock they swallow. “What are you for?”

They seemed to consider my question. “We like Shakespeare!” shouted one. “We create life, and we perpetuate culture,” replied another thoughtfully. Said the third, “We’re trying to eliminate baby-faced depressives from the gene pool.”

“Then you’ve certainly backfired on the Catholics.” I stroked the remnant of my beard and turned to Shag. “Sir, we should waste no time in bringing them to the safety of our suspicious roadside barn. Send Gayparade back through the TRANSporner and let us put a plug in James Franc’n’o in a firm and impressive way.”

Shag nodded apprehensively, taking the marionette by the elbow and helping him toward the entry port. “Fear not,” he advised the waif, “for soon you will have no rap career again. Iggy.”

“Iggy,” Gayparade murmured after him. “Iggy, Iggy.”

They came upon the threshold of the TRANSporner, its dilated cavern of unnatural lust that had given Iggy Azalea talent and genitalia so many years before. The twink gulped, appraising it, unsure of how to proceed.

“Timpani?” Shag inflected. “What is the matter?”

But the twisted, hollow-cheeked spaghetti said nothing, impelling Shag to grip him by the hair, repeating his query in a low growl.

“Oh, Paragon!” cried the gimp at unimpressive length, “I can’t do it, brother! Being a girl is bullshit!”

“Truly,” said Shag. “I’ve read Nietzsche.”

“I won’t go back into the TRANSporner,” he wailed. “I would rather die than look like an adult human.”

Shag leant down, menace in his eyes. “Then we must leave, Timpani, quickly -- before Master Butch is able to transfer sufficient power from his penis into his legs to follow us.”

“You mean...?”

“Yes,” my noble friend, my eternal companion responded, turning to me. “I am prepared to accept my animal nature, the amoral truth of my life: there can be no more good taste, because that is for the straights. I am a total gay forever.” And thus, Shag tore the bomber jacket from his shoulders, and it fell away like his erection, revealing a strapless silver gown and taffeta stole. Rising by fabulous vampirism, he glared down at me; nevertheless, I could discern a cold and implicit sadness in his gaze, the gaze of young man after the golden summer of 1914.

“Shag,” said I, my loins quivering, “get ahold of your senses. There is no future in the Homosexuality. Every country where gay queers establish their warrens, penises shrink. This is because the Nancy makes healthy public arousal impossible by constantly bringing up Madonna.”

But he had already vanished, along with Gayparade, into a vortex of passionate mid-century female friendships.

The silence that prevailed in his wake was deafening; it was interrupted, at last, only by the genital whir of the TRANSporner and the soft, incomprehensible chattering of the women. And after much prayer, my noble witness, I still cannot say which of us in that final instant had been more the queer Dorothy: Shag, his crystal-blue eyes darkened with looming cocks, cutting loose to spend his life spoon-feeding treacle to a preteen girl’s gay skeleton; or myself, at the realization that, more than my box of horse condoms, more than my brass knuckles, more than even my beard, I needed Paragon Shag with me. It brings me shame to confess this, but we live in such times as make masculine pride scarce, and I do not foresee Western civilization’s return to glistening worthiness until the metrosexuals have been pounded back into almond butter and adult coloring books.

I crossed myself, still in a state of disbelief, and turned toward the threshold of hell, where Sexchaynge stood waiting. She had pressed her cheek against her fist, and her gaze lifted to me sympathetically. “What are you going to do now, Master Butch?”

In a supreme display of muscular eminence, I diverted my erection away from the heart of the sun, boring it into the ground, quaking the earth with my righteousness. “I must pursue Shag, and I must put an end to his delirious transsexual rampage at any cost. Even at the cost of his life. Before he encounters God and offends Him with Sapphic literature.”

“Take solace,” Sexchaynge whispered. “I don’t believe it will come to that. Shag has become a gay slut, so you will always know where to find him...” She smiled sadly as I considered her words. “And lucky for you, sweet-meat sandwich, I know just the ‘man’ to get you in.”

To Be Continued

 About the Authors

In preparation for the BAFTA ceremony, Admiral Willpower Butch is studying how to act prissy and entitled by sitting in on liberal arts film classes. His former beloved companion, Paragon Shag, hasn’t been seen in public since he scandalized a group of children with a flamboyant Broadway medley at their school vape bar; now, he prefers the privacy of the abandoned crime scene he shares with Timpani Gayparade and his twenty-two hot brothers. Their secretary, international murder victim and street gastroenterologist Dead Summer Days, will never get into heaven, but he will loiter around the gate smelling of weed.