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loverofthousands · 4 years ago

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Ceaseless Despair// Dazai Osamu

"Tell me, Dazai-san. What causes tragedy? What causes despair? How can one truly call something as tragic?"

The glass was cold to your lips as you drank the golden liquid it contained, bitter yet sweet to your tongue. Alcohol had never been your friend. Shattered, empty bottles of it were lined up in your childhood home, cutting you with its sharp shards, but your father never seemed to care. He piled it up, higher and higher until you saw a stranger who once called himself your father. Only bad memories came from alcohol. How ironic that you now seek its bitter taste in the darkness of the night, haunted by memories you'd rather forget. You turned to the bandaged man standing at the steps of the stairs, beckoning him to come sit beside you. Dazai smiled and walked on over, no doubt fighting against painful memories as well. This might have been the reason why you two got along so well. Your fights were different, but similar in nature.

He sat next to you and ordered a drink of his own, though he barely drank it during the entire encounter. "What do you mean? Tragic, by definition, is when something incredibly, irreversibly bad has happened. Tragic is the broken, the shattered, the irreparable. In other words, something like me." He smiled then, playing with the ice in his drink. You were sure you will never forget the sound of the ice clinking against the glass. You shifted in your seat, leaning against the wooden counter, your head resting at the palm of your hands. "Ah, yes. The tragic story of Dazai Osamu. If you wrote a book loosely based on your life, it might sell for some good money." He laughed, but you can tell it was devoid of any emotions. You knew won't be able forget that too.

"But what of the fairy tales?" You asked. Dazai tried to meet your gaze, but you were already caught up in your own fantasy world. "By that logic, every story is tragic. Snow White was chased out of her own home and was poisoned by her own stepmother. Aurora was cursed from the moment of her birth and then never met her parents until the moments before the curse was fulfilled. Cinderella was treated as less than human by her own stepmother and stepsisters all the while mourning her father's death. Those traumas and heartbreaks are sure to torture them all throughout their lives. But still they had their happy endings." Dazai Osamu, the former executive of the renowned Port Mafia, Demon Prodigy, and a man who was barely considered a human. He is broken like shattered glass, but still, you didn't believe he was tragic.

"Happy endings, huh? I never pegged you to be the type to believe in those." You merely shrugged at him in response. Your mother used to read to you every night, all curled up in your pink blanket, a teddy bear in hand, her voice drowning out the nightmares that came with the dark. He hummed as he nodded his head, a cynical smile still plastered on his lips, playing with a thought in his mind. For awhile, you two sat there in silence. No one, but you and him at the expanse of this bar, finding a twisted sense of comfort in each other's company. "But, you see, it is because they have their happy endings that they are not considered as tragic. They were reparable. That's the difference between me and them. I am not..." Dazai trailed of his words with grim finality.

"Dazai-san," You can feel his dark brown eyes look at you, but you didn't turn back. You stared head on to the selves of alcohol in front of you, not daring to even catch a glimpse of him, your eyes filled with fervor, burning with a flame that threatened to burn him alive. He looked at you with awe like a moth drawn to a flame. "Do you think there are things in life that are irreparable? Objects are often broken, but given time and patience, will be repaired. With cracks and scars, yes, but still repaired." You paused, gathering your thoughts, latching unto an idea, desperate to not let it slip your mind. "Humans are even more so. They have vitality and resilience, granting them the power to bulldoze through the toughest times."

He laughed a broken sort of laugh containing disbelief instead of humor. "Don't you think that all fairy tales are tragic? After all, despite the golden castles and gowns, death will soon take them all. Life is a tragedy. It gives then it takes with no remorse. Death is its inevitable ending." His face grew darker and darker as the conversation passes. You took a deep breath and let let it out as if letting go of an extremely heavy burden that nestled itself deep into your bones. "First of all, fairy tales aren't usually tragic, but they are dark and morbid. After all, they carry that truth of reality, designed to teach young children. Secondly, how could you say they are tragic if they had once found happiness in their lives? Happiness, despite it being called a happy ending, is usually found in the journey rather than the ending."

Dazai shook his head, an empty smile never disappearing from his face. "Pretty words for a pretty girl. How fitting. So what do you call a tragedy then, hm?" Pressing a finger to your lips, you stared at one of the yellow lamps that hung from the ceiling of the bar. "Sakunoske Oda..." You muttered under your breath, but he heard it. Dazai's face contorted to that of anguish and despair as if he had just been slapped in the face, but in a blink of an eye it was gone, hidden under the many masks he has perfected his entire lifetime. He held his breath, listening carefully to what you had to say with narrowed eyes. You chose your next words carefully, not wanting to offend the memory of his dearest friend. "I believe that tragedy is an ending and the sadness that followed up to it before. Humans, in all their vitality and resilience, have the potential to find happiness all throughout their lives. And although Sakunoske-san wanted to, he still chose death without truly reaching happiness and contentment. That is what I call a tragedy." You felt like melting under his gaze, but still you held your ground. He fell silent, the atmosphere getting heavier and heavier by the second.

"What's your point? If you want to say something to me, just say it." Dazai snapped at you. He shook with anger, but it was barely noticeable, almost as if you merely imagined it. You steadied your breath, your heart pumping loudly in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins. "A while ago you said that you were tragic. I don't believe that's true. You, after all, despite not believing it yourself, still have the potential to find the happiness in your life. Tragedy is sad from start to finish, but your story isn't over yet. You can still shape how you want it to end. You know why?" You turned to him with eyes as clear as day. "Because, even if you don't realize it yourself, you, Dazai Osamu, are still undeniably human." His breath hitched, and although he tried to desperately hide it, he was clearly shaken by your words. It cut him deep in the heart.

Silence fell once again. His gaze never went up to you, but instead stared at the drink on the counter, its ice already halfway melted. "Is that why you've come here? To torture me and then scold me for my patheticness?" He laughed darkly. From your point of view, you can clearly see the hollow shell of a man. You almost felt pity for him, but you dared not to. Pity wasn't what he wants, nor does he need it. What he does need is love and understanding, things that he was depraved of as a child. You weren't sure whether you are able to give him these things, but you're sure as hell going to try. Was it out of pity? No, it was out of empathy, because you too made friends with the very darkness that drowned him now. Sometimes you still felt trapped under it, but it wouldn't hurt to shine a bit of light unto a fellow companion.

"Do you remember what you said to me the second time we met?" You started, your gaze distant as you walked through memory lane. You and Dazai only met three times, all of which took place in this very bar. First was when he went here to meet up with Ango and Sakunoske, but found you instead. The second was the wretched night his best friend died. And the third was now, when he found you sitting at his friend's designated seat, waiting for him. Dazai composed himself, shifting in his seat. "Yes, of course. How could I forget? That was the time I anguished at the fact that you are unable to erase my painful memories due to the nature of my ability, right?"

Forget-Me-Not: The ability to tamper with one's memories. That was your ability and you hated it so. It can tamper with everyone else's memories, except yours and Dazai's. How truly loathsome. It was a curse that took everything from you, as well as the happiness of only one you had ever loved your entire life. "Yes. Do you still believe that forgetting them would make you happy?" He opened his mouth, and closed it again in quiet contemplation. A few seconds had passed before he broke the silence. "Well, it's much better than to be haunted by them constantly, right?" He waved his hand in the air in a disregarding manner. His eyes dropped once again to the glass.

"I met my mother today," You started. Dazai didn't move to look at you, but you knew he was listening, an unreadable expression on his face. "Well, not exactly met. I meant, I saw her from afar at the train station. She carried herself pretty well in public, but you can clearly see the dark circles in her eyes. She probably is still unable to sleep due to her misery." From your second meeting, you had opened up to Dazai about your mother. When your drunkard of a father passed away, it took a heavy toll on your poor mother. In his drunkenness, he had abused both you and your mother, but she still cried out to him every night since his passing. That was until the fateful night, the night your ability activated. Your mother shook from the nightmares that haunted her, and you consoled her, but deep inside your heart you wished for something you regret up to this day. You wished your mother would just forget him. A bright light blinded you and the next thing you knew, your mother was screaming "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Yes, she forgot about your father, but along with him, you were forgotten too.

"I had accidentally erased her memories of us that night, of the heartbreak and trauma and pain. So why is she still miserable?" Dazai didn't answer, or rather, he couldn't. He didn't know the answer. "Seeing her today reminded me of you, and a certain fairy tale I had read a long time ago. It's called "The Boy Who Fed On Nightmares." Do you want to hear it?" He was silent, but soon found the courage to look at you, solemnly nodding. You smiled at him. It was genuine this time, filled with warmth. You told the story from memory. "It starts like this: The Boy woke up from another awful nightmare. Bad memories of the past that he wanted to erase from his head were replayed in his dreams every night and haunted him nonstop. The Boy was terrified of falling asleep. So one day, he went to the Witch and begged "Please, get rid of all my bad memories, so that I won't ever have a nightmare again. Then I will do everything you ask." Years went by, and the Boy became an adult. He no longer had nightmares. But for some strange reason, he wasn't happy at all. One night, a blood moon filled the sky and the Witch finally showed up again to take what he has promised in return for granting his wish. And he shouted at her with so much resentment. "All my bad memories are gone, but why... Why can't I become happy?" Then the Witch took his soul as they had promised..."

You paused, grabbing the glass and drinking the alcohol in one gulp. Your throat burned and your tongue cringed at its bitterness, but at that moment you didn't care. You stood up from your stool. "And?" Desperation leaked from his voice. Dazai no longer bothered to hide the anguish from his deep, brown eyes. "What happened after that? Why didn't he become happy?" You turned to him, still smiling the same smile of warmth. "The Witch told him this, "Hurtful, painful memories, memories of deep regrets, memories of hurting others and being hurt, memories of being abandoned. Only those with such memories buried in their hearts can become more stronger, more passionate, and emotionally flexible. And only those can attain happiness." So don't forget any of it. Remember it all and overcome it. If you don't overcome it, you'll always be a kid whose soul never grows old... That's how the story ends." Back then, you didn't fully understood the tale. You did now.

You turned your back to him, walking towards the stairs. At the third step, you looked back. "Dazai-san, in every fairy tale bad things happen, yes? But those with happy endings have always defeated every adversary. They didn't run, nor did they hide. They slayed the dragon, defeated the wicked witches and created a happy ending for themselves. I hope, with all of my heart, that you find the courage to create yours..." And with that, you left, your words still hanging on the silence of your departure. Dazai was alone once again, staring at the space you had once stood on proudly. He sat there in silence, replaying your last words over and over again in his head. After a few minutes, he smiled and left the bar, leaving his drink completely forgotten and untouched in the wooden counter.

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A/N: I’ve recently watched the Kdrama, “It’s Okay Not To Be Okay” That’s where I got the inspiration for this one shot. The fairy tale, “The Boy Who Fed On Nightmares” is from there too. Thank you for reading <3

#bsd #bsd imagines #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #bsd dazai #bsd oneshot #bsd scenarios #bsd osamu dazai #bsd dazai x reader #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #bsd dazai osamu x reader #bungo stray dogs dazai #bsd dazai scenarios

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elencelebrindal · 4 years ago

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Hi! Among the Saints, do you have any favourite technique or fighting style in specific?

Yeah, quite a bit actually! I’m going to put pictures, because why not, the visuals are cool. I don’t have a favorite fighting style, ‘cause I mostly enjoy watching people beating the crap out of each other (not in real life, please don’t), just know that I like how everyone’s fight. Some styles are similar, some are unique, but I love them all. And now for the techniques, in no particular order and with their corresponding Italian names because of who I am as a person, we have 10 of them. All under the cut because this post is loooooong.

1. Nebula Storm (Tempesta di Andromeda)

I am deeply in love with the Nebula Storm, one of my all-time favorite techniques of the franchise. It’s so cool to see how powerful this can get, and I love how “calm” it’s the execution (compared to most other techniques). I gives this idea that a technique doesn’t have to be physically violent to be effective, and the Storm is also versatile, since it’s a wide range technique that incapacitates whoever falls victim to it.

2. Scarlet Needle (Cuspide Scarlatta)

What can I say, this is my favorite technique of the classic Gold Saints. It might have an unpredictable outcome, but it’s very interesting and has unique characteristics. I love how it reflects the stars of the Scorpio constellation, and me being the huge space nerd I am, I cannot help but be amazed at how the last needle is called Antares. Maybe that’s also the reason why I love the Nebula Storm, space references! Seriously speaking, the Scarlet Needle is different from a lot of other techniques, and gives a fair chance of survival if the Saint ultimately decides to spare whoever gets hit by it. Lethal and forgiving at the same time, and this it what gives it a spot among us my favorite.

3. Freezing Coffin (Sarcofago di Ghiaccio)

I don’t exactly know why I love this technique so much, but I do. I like how it can be used both as an offensive attack and as something able to preserve life as it is forever. Maybe I like is to much because I’m already enthralled by how, in real life, ice can preserve ancient life with so much ease, but I honestly cannot give you a clear explanation. it’s just a really cool concept in my opinion.

4. Another Dimension (Dimensione Oscura)

Ok, who doesn’t like this at least a little bit? A technique than literally opens an alternate dimension and that can trap anyone in it? This is one of the coolest and most powerful techniques I’ve ever seen (save maybe for Thanos’ snap, but I have doubts), and it’s so interesting. The fact alone that a person, a human, can open a channel to a different dimension is baffling. I love how it’s almost impossible to flee from this space, how distressing is to be caught inside it. This technique, even if defeatable, can easily incapacitate someone to a certain degree. Can you imagine having the power of literally opening and closing at will a completely alternate dimension in your hands?

5. Rikudo Rinne (Volta di Minosse)

This is one of the most terrifying techniques I’ve ever seen, even worse than losing all five senses and getting basically eradicated from existence. At least you won’t feel anything anymore, in those cases. But this? This straight up dooms you. Not only that, this technique is so incredibly interesting, from how it works to what makes it. The six planes of existence of this technique not only have meaningful origins, but are all deeply different; some are better and some are worse, instead of being all the same. All in all, is a complex technique with different outcomes and different approaches, and in my opinion deserves a lot more attention.

6. Death Trip Serenade (Sinfonia dell’Eterna Quiete)

I’m going to be honest. I have a soft spot for music-based techniques. This is my favorite of them all, but I have some honorable mentions, aka the Stringer Requiem (Melodia delle Tenebre) and the Dead End Symphony (Dolce Melodia del Flauto). I also have a soft spot for Orpheus (the mythological character), so I couldn’t help but love this technique in particular. I find incredible how Saint Seiya can have really powerful Saints have calm techniques like this, techniques that are still scaringly deadly. The Serenade is one of my favorites because it doesn’t work by directly killing who listens to it, but puts them to an eternal sleep, thus indirectly being lethal. Opposite from my honorable mentions, this technique is gentle, in a way. It doesn’t cause pain, and listening to it is actually pleasurable. It lures the victim of the song in a false sense of security, thus giving a somewhat easy victory. And that’s why I love it, because while you listen to it, you’re literally signing up for your death without being aware of what’s actually happening. Gentle, but scary.

7. Unity of Nature (Anime della Natura)

Now this is something I would never want to experience. Unique and lethal, unless you manage to understand how to act and do it properly. I love it. Using nature itself as a weapon is probably the most creative way of fighting, and it gives a huge advantage if the battle takes place basically anywhere that’s not a cement jungle. Not easy to counteract and dangerous, two attributes that please me very much, and to certain degree also terrifying and distressing. Can you imagine having to fight against nature? Maybe it’s not a technique that works on everyone, because of course someone strong enough could just destroy the entire place that’s currently controlled for this technique, but it’s nonetheless scary.

8. Cosmic Marionette (Dominio Cosmico)

This is scary. This is absolutely terrifying. A technique that basically transforms anyone that fall prey to it into a helpless puppet controlled in every movement is not a joke. The user of this can literally capture a person and break every single bone in their body by flicking a finger, can kill a person by snapping their neck with one single movement. The wave of a hand could inflict unspeakable torture and pain to whoever in captured in the strings. If this is not one of the coolest techniques you’ve ever seen, honestly what are you doing with your life? A single string to the neck, and death is assured. Effective, to say the least. And it works at long distance too, so good luck.

9. Crimson Thorn (Spine Cremisi)

Deadly. One of the deadliest of my favorites techniques that are not kind. Thousands of needles made of poisonous blood being injected directly into a single target sound pretty effective to me, unless the target is covered head to toe with an armor. So yeah, flawed, but still one of the best and most effective, considering how poisonous the blood is. If it hits, it’s game over. Also, another of my requirements is met: this technique is unique. Using your own blood to fight is, by far, one of the most unique fighting strategies I normally see in fiction, and this interpretation of it is honestly kinda morbid. Which, for me, is a positive point. It gives the impression of how much a Saint can sacrifice of themselves, to the point of using so much blood that surviving is impossible. I think it’s a technique that should be used only when extremely necessary, if not only in situations where death is basically looming over and it’s the last ace up your sleeve, but it’s tremendously dangerus. For everyone involved. And it can be used as an effective distraction, so it works both as offensive and defensive, even if dangerous.

10. Greatest Eclipse (Eterna Eclissi)

Yes, I consider this a technique, even if is more of a power. Worthy of a god, and even if extreme in its fantasy connotations, could realistically destroy all life on Earth. And it’s more effective than another one, still used by Hades, aka the Lost Canvas. This doesn’t take as much time, and it’s also horrifying to watch as it happens. An eternal eclipse that blocks out the sun, if you take away the fancy explanation of how all the planets get manipulated and probably get their rotation stopped (which, in itself, is terrifying to imagine), is in fact able to create extreme conditions, thus killing everybody. I’ve seen people doubting the Greatest Eclipse could actually work, and I raise you this, taking away all the supernatural stuff: the effect a permanent solar eclipse would have on planet Earth. One side would be constantly exposed to the sun, the other would never receive any light or heat anymore, not enough at least. This creates extreme living conditions, which become impossible to survive in. Animals start dying, crops cannot grow anymore or in large quantities, and people slowly start dying as well. I’m not putting into the picture other apocalyptic events (like a stopped moon being affected by Earth’s gravitational pull to the point of smashing into it), because if Hades manipulates everything nothing else is going to happen, but a total solar eclipse that never goes away and an Earth that completely stops moving spell death. Add to this the fact that the Greatest Eclipse is also capable of destroying souls, and there you have it. This is my favorite power of the entire array of manga, anime, and general fiction I’ve watched/read. Hands down. Obviously, don’t take me too seriously, I mostly take this stuff from watching various documentaries so take what I write with careful eyes.

Honorable Mentions

Most of the techniques I listed are, surprisingly, not as violent and/or destructive as I thought they would be. Because of who I am as a person, I tend to like chaos and catastrophic stuff, but I surprised myself upon realizing what I prefer in this franchise. Well, with exceptions, obviously. These are my honorable mentions, techniques I really like but not enough to know why:

- Galaxian Explosion (Esplosione Galattica)

- Aurora Execution (Sacro Aquarius, yeah let’s not talk about this)

- Tenkū Haja Chimimōryō (Elevatevi Spiriti. Danzate Ombre delle Tenebre, anime name, pretty weird)

- Phoenix Illusion Demon Fist (Fantasma Diabolico)

- Demon Emperor Fist (Fantasma dell’Oscurità)

- Rozan Kō Ryū Ha (Pienezza del Dragone)

- Whatever technique Baldr from Soul of Gold uses

- Brilliant Wings Heaven Dance

- Golden Triangle (Triangolo d’Oro)

And this is it, folks! I probably won’t be able to post anything else that’s this long for a couple days (this university is making me hate my life), but expect a post about Soul of Gold Aldebaran on Monday (hopefully).

#saint seiya #i cavalieri dello zodiaco #los caballeros del zodiaco #os cavaleiros do zodiaco #knights of the zodiac #saints #gold saints #bronze saints #silver saints #watever they're too many #specters #god warriors #marina generals #is this all?#maybe

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anhed-nia · 5 years ago

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BLOGTOBER 10/21/2019: TERROR IN THE WOODS

I consider this to be the second Slender Man movie that I viewed this blogtober season. Previously, I wrote about THE TALL MAN, a twisty 2012 thriller by Pascal Laugier, the writer-director of 2008′s MARTYRS, which is coincidentally about a pair of traumatized young women who are driven to violence by the belief that they must placate a monstrous supernatural entity. THE TALL MAN does not share that similarity with the Slender Man mythos, but it makes a familiar proposal: A tall shadowy male figure emerges from the forest to abscond with children, for reasons that may be either murderous, or that may instead offer lonely and dejected little kids an escape into a sort of gothic Neverland. This odd killer-savior dichotomy reflects the pathos at the heart of Slender Man fandom, an obsession that thousands of ordinary young people shared with juvenile attempted murderers Morgan Geyser and Anissa Weier. Their story is so well-known that it feels a little embarrassing to explain that the eerie Slender Man is the fictitious product of an online Photoshop contest. His first appearance, surrounded by young victims and/or acolytes, was captioned thusly:

“We didn't want to go, we didn't want to kill them, but its persistent silence and outstretched arms horrified and comforted us at the same time… “

The images’ combination of spooky shit and childhood innocence would have felt pretty cliche even in 2009, but the conflation of victimization with salvation is a potent one. It evokes both the escapist bent that is so pronounced in children, and also the death drive--the psychoanalytic idea that people are subconsciously attracted to their own inevitable and perhaps cathartic conclusions. Maybe someone has already named this form of suicidal ideation that represents both the desire for everything to stop, and the hopeful fantasy that death could be the beginning of something else; If so, I would love to read about it. For want of that, we have the sadly overexposed yet still poorly understood story of 12 year olds Moran Geyser and Anissa Weier attempting to make a sacrifice of their supposed friend Payton Leutner to the Slender Man. A thinly-veiled version of this story is articulated successfully in the Lifetime original movie TERROR IN THE WOODS.

The generic title gives no hint of what this well-acted and psychologically realistic production is like. While no names are named, including the Slender Man’s, Ella West Jerrier and Sophie Grace play extraordinarily convincing stand-ins for Geyser and Weier, as the awkward, isolated little girls who become increasingly obsessed with a Creepy Pasta-like website where they find out about a demonic creature called the Suzerain. Like the Slender Man, the terms of one’s relationship with the Suzerain are complicated. Once you have its attention, you have to make a blood sacrifice, or else it will annihilate your family. However, making the sacrifice brings the strange reward of being accepted into the Suzerain’s remote mansion, where you live forever as his slave. That might not sound too good to just anybody, but an unhappy, confused, and powerless person sees in it an escape from the ravages of the mundane world, and also a relief from the painful burden of personal responsibility, as the Suzerain becomes your ultimate and eternal authority. This is where the Payton Leutner character comes in (played perfectly by Skylar Morgan Jones), an even more naive and immature classmate who was being edged out of girls’ triangle before the Suzerain “chose” her for sacrifice.

While I feel concerned about some of the oversimplified causes that TERROR IN THE WOODS seems to identify--chiefly, well-meaning but absent parents who are too concerned with their personal dramas to notice the murder plot hatching under their noses--the movie nails perpetrator’s personalities, keeping the focus appropriately on their emotional turmoil and complex delusions. Minus the acerbic comedy, TERROR sometimes feels like a Todd Solondz picture, with true to life characters rendered in agonizing detail, especially Skylar Morgan Jones, who is as unlikable as she is undeserving. Their vulnerability, their tackiness, and their juvenile pretensions are all beautifully fleshed-out. One rarely sees an honest, warts-and-all portrayal of young children in anything besides obnoxiously arty, explicit indie dramas, and this quality puts Lifetime ahead of the curve (as they often are) in terms of a certain kind of domestic realism. Even the attempted murder scene pulls no punches, graphically depicting the savage stabbing of a little girl who ends up drenched in blood and rolled in forest floor detritus.

As I just suggested, I object somewhat to the easy-out presented here, that all of this could have been prevented if only the parents were more attentive to their children’s internet activity, and more suspicious of their perceived emotional states. Today I watched the two hour 20/20 special about the crime, in which a lot of professional adults say a lot of incredibly stupid things about the “obvious” problems with Geyser and Meier. “Is ‘I want to die’ a normal thing for a child to write?” blusters one expert rhetorically about a diary entry, at which I nearly screamed “OF COURSE IT IS!” Anyone who never experienced such exaggerated feelings of emotional exhaustion as a young teen would have to be either extremely sheltered, or sort of a psychopath themselves. Throughout the special, grownups who think Apple Jacks should taste like apples spar over whether Geyser and Morgan are just fundamentally bad people, completely ignoring the complex and detailed psychology laid out in the Slender Man literature itself. On one hand is the threat of family annihilation by this creature in whom the two girls manifestly deeply believed. On the other hand, respite from a continued life of bullying and rejection from all of their peers. Fear, sadness, alienation, and actual mental illness permeate this tragic story. In fact, the girls were ultimately diagnosed with schizophrenia and shared psychosis, respectively. However, even with all that on the table, some individuals remain happy to go on TV post-trial speculating frothily that these kids just wanted to know what it felt like to commit murder, and that maybe in this story we have discovered “that rarest of things--an evil 12 year old!”

It isn’t that I don’t think evil 12 year olds can exist. I don’t believe in the patent innocence of children any more than I believe that parents are completely capable of knowing (and changing) their child’s every thought and feeling, down to the ability to determine that something as outrageous as a blood sacrifice is a real life possibility and not just a relatively normal morbid musing for a normally emo-y kid. Trying to imagine that level of domestic detective work reminds me of the superior documentary DEPROGRAMMED, which details how the filmmaker’s rebellious brother had his life ruined by parents who convinced themselves that he was a legitimate and dangerous devil worshipper. Life just isn’t that simple, and this urge to find simplistic causes and solutions for unpredictable events is no more rational or mature than the urge to find solace in an imaginary kingdom with no parents and no homework. At this point, I feel like I should apologize for failing to address this movie, which I really liked a lot, as much as I addressed the story of the Slender Man stabbing. TERROR IN THE WOODS is roundly well-acted, appropriately sympathetic to all parties, and soberly told. It’s just hard for me to separate the story from the movie, as both have potent things to say about how we underestimate the psychological complexity of childhood. I don’t have solutions to propose, except that I think a good place to start would be with responsible adults relinquishing their own shallow certainty about what can happen and what we can do.

#terror in the woods #blogtober #sophie grace #ella west jerrier #skylar morgan dunbar #angela kinsey #drew powell #true crime #slender man #urban legend #creepy pasta #thriller #drama #horror #dj viola #amber benson

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kwrittink · 6 years ago

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Punica Granatum - 1

Pairing: Hades!TaeHyung x Persephone!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Language, mentions of psychologic abuse,

Words: 4,877

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"Don't forget to water the daisies, dear." The voice of your mother snapped you from whatever unimportant daydream you were having, hand straightening the watering pot before you drowned the poor lilies, turning to her and smiling a little sad, as you watched her get ready to go out. It's been a while I walked outside...

Your mother wasn't a cruel one, rather very loving and caring, but also very overprotective. Borderline obsessive with my well-being, to be honest.

Sigh.

As she walked away, you resumed watering the little garden that you had made in your room, by the big glass window that faced the forest surrounding your home, a ray of sunshine always present at that side and perfect for growing all of your plants.

You’ve been fairly content living your whole life under your mother’s wings, in the little world she constructed to have you always under her sight and comfortable enough to not move, feeding you with knowledge and incredible worlds of fantasy, so much that whenever the real one you lived in was mentioned, it looked bland and boring in your opinion. You decided to strive for happiness in books instead.

But after a while, it wasn’t enough. Even if the mansion where you lived with your mother was filled with books of endless subjects, you felt that your hunger for knowledge wouldn’t be sated with just that. You read about some parts of the world that matched descriptions of some tales of your childhood, watched documentaries over phenomena that left you startled, scared and amazed, and wanted to touch that, to live all of that. To get out and smell the different airs, taste the waters, and see the different colors of the earth; suddenly aware the world could be the stage to your own tale.

Suggesting that to your mother, on the other hand, was like talking to a wall. Being so used to you in the mansion, she couldn’t bear one single night without you, and you knew it pained her to leave you when she was needed at her work, but it was mostly because she was scared.

There was something, someone she would always mention when discussing the reasons why you couldn’t even walk alone to the supermarket or the park that made you extremely curious. For some time you wondered if it was your father, that had abandoned the two of you when you were just a baby, but lost the conviction when your mother once mentioned he was dead. Still, sometimes that presence slipped on her speech, and it left you itching with curiosity.

Yet, you dropped the subject quickly nowadays, settling for just occupying your mind with your little garden and some writing, occasionally reading something. One day you would gather courage and just leave, do whatever you wanted.

Something within you told the moment was arriving quickly.

“Having searched the entire living land, Demeter finally contacted Zeus. He informed her of Persephone’s marriage to Hades in the Underworld. Demeter grew into a motherly rage. She demanded Zeus to return Persephone to her care.

But Zeus refused.

Demeter left Olympus and watched as the earth began to decay without her nurture. She sought to punish Zeus for betraying her and their daughter. The now yellow meadows blackened and decomposed to dust. The trees began to shrink into the hard dirt. The rivers shriveled up, and the lakes froze over.

Zeus had no other choice but to agree to Demeter’s demands.

He told Hermes, the messenger, to bring Persephone back up to Demeter’s care.

In the Underworld, Persephone had grown to love Hades, who treated her with compassion and loved her as his Queen. As she would have up in Olympus, she remained eternally beautiful in the Underworld. Hades admired her kind and nurturing nature. However, Persephone missed her dear mother greatly and wished to spend time on earth with her.

When Hermes reached the Underworld, he requested that Persephone come back to earth with him to rejoin her mother and father. Hades knew he could not refuse the commands of Zeus, but he also could not part from his beloved Persephone.

Before she departed from the Underworld, Hades offered Persephone a pomegranate as a farewell. This was, however, a cunning move by Hades. All the Olympians knew that if anyone ate or drank anything in the Underworld they would be destined to remain there for eternity, as the Fates had cautioned. Even Demeter had warned Persephone of this fate and instructed her never to eat or drink anything.

Thinking of her mother, Persephone decided to, instead, eat the small seeds of the pomegranate – assuming that these would not count as consumption.

Little did Persephone know-”

A loud bang interrupted your reading - studying, since you had a morbid interest for the old gods and their stories, even if your mother would flip her shit if she knew - and looked towards the source of noise a little startled, but immediately spotted the small animal tossing desperately on the floor, right outside the glass windows. You recognized it right away, having encountered them many times over the years since for some reason the poor things seemed to be drawn by you - or the flowers you harvested, at least.

“C’mon little bat, I’ll help you inside.” As opening the window, you reached down to pick up what at first glance looked like a mix of a small dog and a bird, a cute little mammal that practically clung to your arm as you gently grabbed it. “There you go. You’re one of those that eat fruits, aren’t you? Did you came for my- Oh dear, you’re hurt!” You cooed, noticing suddenly how one of its wings was bent in a weird angle, indicated it was broken. You needed to help it, or else it would die.

Tending for it as better as you could, you wrapped it on warm towels and fed it mangoes, since it suffered quite a great deal for having its wing put into place, gladly just dislocated, and not broken. You pet it softly as the little bat sniffed the air around him, not sure to be safe but calm enough in your presence.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you go in a bit. I just want you to eat a little more and then you’re free to fly for the rest of the night, I guess.” You spoke to it softly, having the small ears twisting to the source of the sound. Chuckling, you gave another piece of mango to the bat, watching as it ate quickly. How long was he flailing around with a wing like that? Maybe it wasn’t even able to feed correctly… Your heart squeezed at that, always so soft for the creatures of the world, knowing but not into terms with the fact that one day, it would fall to the life’s cycle and die, like all things. It was the reason why you didn’t want to own any pets so you wouldn’t feel so sad by witnessing their end.

Death is necessary but doesn’t mean it’s pretty.

Huffing, you threw yourself on the bed, hands going to cover your angered expression and trying to calm down. Once again you had discussed with your mother about going outside alone and whatnot, countering every argument she came with - till she got emotional. That was what pissed you off, having her make a whole deal of tears and later anger as a way to back you off from whatever decision you tried to set your foot down.

I should just leave the house, at least for once and show her that I’m not a child under her control anymore, you thought suddenly, torso raising from the bed and eyes immediately meeting your mirror, the reflected image of you blocking the view to your open glass windows, where the moonlight peeked inside, casting its silver glow on the maroon carpet of your room.

Getting up, you padded towards the window, anger still boiling in your blood as you glanced around, trying to decide which direction you should go. The mansion you called home was deeply set in the middle of a reserve, surrounded by it and practically detached from the city, wasn’t for the wide road that leads to the nearest avenue and in a twenty-minute trip by car got to town, where all the other normal and free human beings were. There wasn’t a way you could walk through the front of the mansion without being noticed, and you didn’t want to bother explaining - or lying - to someone why you were outside. Still, the city is not where I want to go. Turning your head to the left, your eyes met the forest, the little fence that surrounded it, and the old gate that connected your house to a pathway from when the reserve was open to the public, a small park just the outside of it.

The place called for you often, and many times you caught yourself sighing while wondering what beauties that ‘abandoned’ place - not that a forest couldn’t take care of itself, more so if humans left it in peace - had, wilderness making your fingers tingle.

Before you could back out, you pushed aside plant pots and jumped out your window, glad the whole house was on a single floor and took off running through the grass, not even sparing a glance back before you got to the gate.

Stopping there, you observed the rusty metal, fingers touching cold chains, and prodding at the padlock, trying to figure out a way to go through. I guess I’ll have to jump over. You sighed, eyes moving to the edge of the fence, wondering if the metal bars were strong enough to hold your weight. It looked firm, even after you gave a first experimental tug and breathed out, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you placed your slipper clad right foot at the horizontal bar and steadied yourself, glancing to the sides timidly.

Artemis help me.

An hour later, walking through the empty path that leads to - where? Perhaps you’d find out - nowhere, you cursed at your choice of clothing since you were in such a rush to get out of the mansion you didn’t even bother to put something warmer on, walking around in the flimsy white dress you had sported all day long.

Crossing your arms over your middle, you tried to maintain your body warmth, relentlessly walking through the stone path. You could always go back and fetch a coat, but you knew deep within you that once you stepped inside again, you would chicken out and stay in the security of your room.

You kept on walking, glancing around the trees and trying to distinguish each detail from the forest, a feeling of coziness taking over you even with the chills. You weren’t afraid of the woods by the least, feeling yourself part of it intricately and inexplicably, relishing on the little sounds it provided as a lullaby.

You didn’t know how long you were walking when you spotted the first bench at the reserve and was glad to have a rest finally, even if it was so refreshing to be out in the open, but you’ve been so stuck inside your home that the long path was taking a toll on your feet. These shoes weren’t made for walking at all. You breathed out, stepping quickly towards sweet relief - low-key wishing you had brought at least water, but who would have known you’d walk so much - but halted your movements as soon as the image of the seat became clearer, noticing that in fact the spot you craved for was taken.

Shuddering, you locked eyes with the man sitting so casually on that abandoned park, neat clothes - suit colored a burgundy so deep it could be mistaken by black at that lightning, like the blood that was running fast in your veins - contrasting so harshly to the colorless and somber surroundings, but fitting so well the pitch black of his eyes, framed by grey locks.

He was beautiful, so much it was the cause of the fast pounding of your heart, rather than any fear you could harbor for the unknown being.

It felt like an eternity, to stare at him and be stared back and you barely noticed your feet moving forward as if having a will of their own, stopping only until you were standing right in front of him, body quivering slightly.

"Hello, there."

His voice startled you, more so the small smile his lips formed upon looking up at your face. Your mouth gaped, trying to muster words while the deep tone of his voice still echoed through your body. Not once in your life you felt so disabled, rendered to a trembling mess, arms tightening around your own figure to try and protect you from the chill of the night.

"You look like you're really cold. Here, have this." The man got up, and you couldn't move, feet rooted to the ground. You had a feeling he was tall, long legs clad in pants the same color of his coat suit - which he removed at that moment, revealing black silk dress shirt underneath - making him stand tall above you, towering over your figure as he approached and covered your shoulders with his suit, the large size of the clothing hugging you warmly, immediately shielding you from the breeze.

"Th-Thank you but... Won't you be cold?" You finally managed to look away from his face, only to glance down to his lips as a grin graced his face.

"Oh, so she has a voice. Thought you were just one of the other ghosts that roam around here." Quipped, teeth peeking out as he smiled harder at your curious head tilt. "I'll be okay, this temperature is nothing compared to my heart right now." Answering the previous question he only made you roll your eyes at the attempt of a cool remark, and if you weren't feeling so protected by his suit you would have given it back and walked away.

"Coldness of heart sometimes just means lack of warmth, not absence of feelings." You recited, knowing it was from a book you had once read but had no idea of the title of it at the moment. Blank expression stared back, and for a second you wondered if you offended him in any way. Some people don’t like to be contradicted when they want to look strong.

“Well, that is precisely my point, if anyone ever bothered to understand.” A breathtaking smile took place of his features, and to say you were startled was an understatement. “Come to sit, let’s talk for a little… You’re really interesting.”

For an instant you were taken aback by the proposition, finally thinking about how dangerous the situation you were putting yourself was. You had already made too many mistakes if you were to count on your mother’s book, and by then you really didn’t have a way out of there.

But if he wanted to do something bad to me, he would have already, wouldn’t he? The thought struck you suddenly, and your eyes wandered to the spot the stranger was patting by his side after sitting down himself.

Mentally waving your worries away you stepped forward, sitting maybe a little closer to his body than you intended to. His eyes never left you, not even for a single moment - as if you were going to disappear, just like the ghosts he mentioned before. It didn’t bother you, even if you knew it should. You were alone in an abandoned park, completely unreachable with a man you had no idea who he was, being stared at like you were some volume he wanted to read it whole and at once.

“What did you mean by interesting?” You asked, fidgeting when his stare turned a little too much and you could feel your cheeks heating up wondering why would he look so much at you.

“You don’t give anything out, as much as I look at you. Also, you don’t seem to be the least frightened by me, though I don’t know if that is hot or just plain stupid.” Explained, out of the bat blunt. You nodded slowly at his answer, surprised and a little offended, but knowing he was right. It is stupid.

“Why should I be afraid of you?” Silence followed your question, as you saw his lips part to give you an immediate answer as before, but it never came. Instead, you could only hear the critters and the never-stopping rustling of leaves, resulting in the constant breeze on that path. Daring to stare back at his eyes, you found yourself wanting to smile at the sight of his conflicted eyes, searching for words like you had made him the most difficult question of his existence.

“Because… Because everyone else seems to be terrified of me.” His mutter was not far from a whisper, and if your surroundings weren’t completely silent, you wouldn’t have heard it. “At least normal people seem to be.” The corner of his mouth curled up as his eyes diverted from yours for the first time ever like he was timid for a moment. It made you stifle a laugh against the sleeve of his coat, drawing his attention back to you all over again.

“Well, I am very sure I can’t be considered normal. It’s dark and I’m alone with a man I’ve just met, no one around me-”

“I’m TaeHyung,” He blurted, like knowing his name would just solve everything else. “Kim TaeHyun.” You only noticed the hand he extended a second later, reaching for it softly. For the second time that night, a shudder ran all over your body as soon as your skin connected to his.

His hand was cold, but not enough to cause the reaction. Long fingers and big palm practically swallowed your own but he never squeezed it hard, tan skin soft to the touch.

“Y/N.” You didn’t even think about giving him a different name, just in case. He looked so sincere and you deemed okay to trust him then. Upon hearing your name he smiled again lightly, shaking your hand slightly.

“Y/N.” Parroted, letting your hand go hesitantly and retreating his own to his lap. “So, what exactly are you doing here alone in this old park?”

The question wasn’t hard, but at the same time, your reasons looked too personal and too simple for a person like him to understand.

“Nothing much. Getting in touch with nature, clearing my mind.” You tried, averting your eyes from his face. TaeHyung hummed a deep sound that was almost comforting and rumbled inside your chest.

“I could say the same thing, but we both know that wouldn’t be honest.” He caught on my lie, you noticed, heat creeping up your neck as your eyes snapped back to him, noticing his smirk. You swallowed hard.

“I was looking for something.”

“Me too.”

Grimacing, you shook your head at his response, thinking he was making fun of you. “Really? And what you were looking for?” Squinting at him, you prompted the man to snicker.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged looking up, perhaps at the moon that hid this whole time behind some clouds, providing little lighting to the land. Weren’t the old lamps dotted along the paths that still worked - even if faintly - by some unknown force, you would be completely in the dark with him. “I just felt a pull towards here, to be honest. I arrived just a little before you did.” He explained, glancing back down with some sort of joyful glint in his eyes. “What about you?”

You had been too absorbed taking in his features - soft latte skin, the sharpness of his jaw, the soft bow of his upper lip, and plumpness of the lower. The smooth lines of his nose, the little mole on the tip- “Hm?” Shaking your head, you looked away from his face, trying to put your head in place. You haven’t met many people in your life - well, because of your mother you had, but never spoke to them in this level of closeness - but no one had made you so… Disconcerted like he was making you. It was a hard feature to fluster you, being educated to be above wooing and flirting.

But TaeHyung - the man was only looking at you, and for some reason, he didn’t need words to convey what he was feeling or trying to say. At that moment, he was confirming his awareness at your admiring and acknowledged it pleased.

“I… Honestly that will sound silly, but I was looking for…” You started, licking at your lips embarrassed, picking at the sleeves of your borrowed coat. Well, after this I won’t ever see him again, you realized, gathering the courage to just say the word. “Freedom.”

“Ah, I see...” He trailed off, waiting till you looked up at his face. “A golden cage it’s still just a cage, huh?”

Your heart probably had stopped beating at that point, while you stared back at the deep void of his eyes, that proposed a trip without return once one sank in. The quote echoed in your soul loud and clear, throat closing up and tears prickling at the corner of your eyes. Read like a book. The change of TaeHyung’s expression was immediate upon seeing your teary eyes, panic widening his own for the first time. “I’m sorry to have upset you, it wasn’t my intention at all- My gods why am I such a jerk, I should just keep my mouth shut, Zeus smite me-”

His words prompted you to snort at the next second, and that perhaps startled him a bit, as the little jolt back showed. Blinking away the tears you chuckled harder at his expression, the confused crease between his full brows endearing to you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to react like that and scare you, I’m really sorry.” You were the one to start apologizing then, placing your hands on your face a little embarrassed by not being able to stop laughing. “You just… You asked Zeus to smite you, and I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say that sort of thing in my life.” Besides me, you wanted to say. If there were deities you believed on, it was the Greek gods, thought the stories written sometimes were a little too exaggerated, even if constant. Understandable, since they were written by humans.

“Oh, that? A silly habit of mine… My friends tell me I’m really weird sometimes.” You glanced back at him on time to see him averting his own gaze, hand scratching his neck awkwardly. It was refreshing seeing him lose a little of the facade he had on, the cool and sort of mysterious man he wanted to pass on, though the hint of danger was still there, but for some reason not in a bad way? If that made sense.

“So you’re interested in them?” You started, bringing TaeHyung’s attention back to you, as he snapped away from his thoughts. “The Greek gods, I mean. Do you believe in them too?” You added, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

In the small space of time, you had spent with that man you had seen him smile, but the one wide grin that spread on his face was groundbreakingly gorgeous. He scoffed, head dropping and eyes meeting his lap, giving your widen eyes a rest as well as your heart, that had started once again a fast pace.

“If I believe them? They’re alive dear, don’t you know?”

You came back right before the sunrise, a feeling of a renewed soul that warmed your very bones. Slipping back inside your room, you smiled while taking off the suit coat, which you only then realized was with you.

It had been such a long while to have a refreshing conversation with someone, you felt your soul was cleansed after the time you spent with TaeHyung. Of course, he said some weird stuff sometimes, but overall it was endearing. You sighed, pulling the wardrobe door open and putting the clothing in, wanting to keep it as a small token of the night you had spent.

Yet, you couldn’t let yourself smile at the content feeling on your heart since your door was being violently pushed open, and your very livid mother walked in, stopping midway to eye your slightly dusty and startled figure, as your back pressed against the closet doors.

"Where were you, Y/N? I was so worried!" Her expression was pained and you felt the urge to look away from her face, suddenly struck with guilt.

"At the abandoned park not far from here. Thought you had seen my note, mother." You lied, stepping away from the furniture and sitting on the bed, trying to keep calm. You didn’t want to start another fight with her and ruin the perfect mood you were in.

She scoffed, walking towards your slightly trembling frame - for some reason it felt really cold inside your room - and frowned. "Still, you went alone! And it's so dark outside, what if something happened to you?"

"But nothing did, mom! I was feeling so stuck, I just needed to walk for a bit. Didn't think you'd mind so much." You tried to explain, a deep crease digging between your eyebrows as well. Your mother's expression softened a little.

"I did, and I do, my child." She shook her head, sighing exasperatedly. "If you wanted to leave for a while, you could just have told me and I would have accompanied you, take you somewhere nice and-"

She doesn't understand, does she? "I just wanted to be alone for a while." Shutting your eyes tight, you could only feel the bed dip by your side as she sat, hands resting over yours.

"You have to understand it's dangerous. You're very precious to me, daughter." You still didn't want to look at her, a lump in your throat, the need to try and make her see how much you needed the air outside, the wild, just like a plant needs fresh air and space to grow. "What if something happened to you? If he found- If someone kidnapped you I'd die."

He? Who is he? You frowned, finally looking at her and opening your mouth to inquire about that 'he' your mother always mentioned, one way or another. She's always talking about an unknown person, someone that is supposedly always threatening us - me, in fact - but she never names it.

But before you could utter a word, she stood and twirled on her feet, walking out of your room, any sign of desperation on her face erased completely. "Look, I'm doing this for your own good, this world is too dangerous for you to be wandering around so innocently." The crease between your brows deepened, head tilting in questioning till you saw a golden object glimmering in her hand, and with panic shooting through your veins, you recognized it to be the key to your room, always in the back of your door.

"Mom? What are you doing? Mom?" You shot up and ran towards the door, eyes wide snapping from the key to her face, worried expression masking the unfaltering decision she had made. "You can't be serious right now!" Lower lip quivering, you tried to appeal to her heart, only having her eyes diverting from yours as a response.

"Y/N, you have to understand. I can't let you roam around knowing he's still around. There are dangers you do not understand, child." The answer made anger boil in your gut, the mention of he making your jaw clench.

"Mother, I am no child, you're well aware of this. You can't lock me forever here! And who the hell is he?"

Icy eyes met yours as she moved away, holding the doorknob in one hand. "One day you will know why I'm doing this... I'll tell you when it's right."

"You can't expect me to just be locked away with no apparent reason!"

"You'll have to trust me-"

"NO! It's my life you're stopping me from living and-"

Without letting you finish she closed the door with a bang, quickly locking it before you could even react. You gasped surprised, palms meeting the white hardwood of your door, banging on it while tears ran down your face unrestrained. It wasn't like you didn't have a way out, you could always jump through the window like you had just done, it was the control your mother had in your will. The locked door was almost a symbol of her power, though you knew that she probably already moved the staff to watch every place you could run from.

You were just doomed, even if surrounded by the things you loved the most. A golden cage it's still just a cage, after all.

___________________________

masterlist

#kim taehyung #kim taehyung fanfic #bts kim taehyung #bts v fanfic #kim taehyung angst #greek gods au #bts greek god au

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ancientbooshartifacts · 5 years ago

Text

The Camping Trip

Author: Nonexistantpup

Year: 2010

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Naboo/Saboo

“You champagne cocktail with a twist of plum!” Saboo snapped. “We’re in the middle of nowhere!” It was sheer force of habit that always led the Shaman Council to unanimously decide Dennis would drive - and there was a perfectly sound reason behind this too. Dennis was almost always sober, and when he wasn’t, everybody bloody knew it. The unfortunate downside, though, was that the Head Shaman was also rubbish at navigation. “Are we?” Dennis inquired, looking about with interest. They were parked in the middle of what seemed to be a featureless desert. “Well, I suppose it is quite bland...” “How dare you?!” demanded Tony Harrison furiously. “Bland?! This is the pinnacle of simplistic pleasure!” Saboo stared. “No, making you into calamari would be the pinnacle of simplistic pleasure, you delusional-” “Oi!” Naboo interrupted. Well. That was odd. Saboo looked at him instead; if that little prick was going to take Tony Goddamn Harrison’s side... “What?” “So this doesn't look familiar to you at all?” Naboo said flatly. Saboo frowned, looking around. Sand. Sand. Sand and... Oh! More sand. “It’s an arid desert,” he responded. “What’s to recognise exactly? We might as well go camping in a sand pit.”

“This is an Outrage!” Tony exclaimed, with even more fervour than usual, and Saboo felt an odd, slimy sensation on his leg as the bizarre little alien prodded him aggressively. “An Outrage! You step on up, you fuckin’ wanker, and I’ll show the the incredible strength of my Outrage!”

Saboo moved slightly away. Being poked by a tentacle always made him feel repulsed and ever so slightly violated.

Apparently taking pity on a confused Saboo, Dennis cleared his throat.

When this didn't work, he added,

“Simmer down!”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” Tony Harrison demanded furiously.

The Head Shaman ignored him.

“Our surprise destination,” he explained cheerfully, “is the only Xooberonian natural preserve on Earth! Terrific, isn't it?”

A brief silence, after which Saboo rolled his eyes.

Ah.

That explained it.

“You plum tart,” he muttered, irritated. There were mumbled expressions of agreement from the other non-Xooberonian shamen. “I thought we were going somewhere interesting. Kirk, weren't you responsible for deciding upon a destination?”

“Yes,” said Kirk.

“And this is it?”

“Yes,” said Kirk.

Saboo narrowed his eyes.

“Did you select this place because of the inevitable conflict it would cause?”

“Yes,” said Kirk.

Old Mick, who spoke no English except for every now and then when it was convenient, made an emphatic gesture, thumping one fist on his chest.

“No. Amazon!”

“We’re camping, Mick,” said Naboo flatly. “We’re not on a quest to fulfil your twisted fantasies about Amazonian warrior women.”

Old Mick growled.

“This is bullshit,” he muttered.

“Oi!” exclaimed Tony Harrison, his face becoming even pinker with rage. “There is no twisted fantasy that can't be aided with a little injection of Xooberonian atmosphere! You just wait, you old Romanian prick; Xooberon’s so erotically perverse, you’ll drown in the innate kinkiness of this place!”

“Anyway,” said Dennis tactfully, “We’re here now, and at the correct destination. We must pitch the tents, I suppose, and somebody must set up a bonfire before nightfall.”

Saboo sighed.

“As it's his fault we're here, let Kirk do it.”

“Kirk shall not be landed with this task,” Dennis argued calmly. “He is a notorious pyromaniac. And besides, it’s his birthday.”

Kirk looked smug, in his usual, expressionless way. Saboo frowned.

“Kirk, is it true that your legendary pyromania has led to death and destruction throughout the known universe?”

“Yes,” said Kirk.

Saboo would also have confirmed that it was, indeed, Kirk’s birthday, but he already knew. He was not completely oblivious.

Unsurprisingly, Saboo was landed with the task of collecting firewood, with no assistance. Well, except for Tony Harrison, who claimed to be ‘adjusting the kindling for maximum effect’, a task which consisted of occasionally prodding the twigs Saboo managed to find with his tentacle.

The rest of the shamen set up the campsite, an activity which Dennis seemed to find delightful and everybody else reviled. Kirk didn't help, of course, since it was birthday, and Naboo was conspicuously absent. This riled Saboo to no end, since it probably meant they were off having a smoke.

Between the two of them, the girls (Wilhelmina the Dark and Yom Sim Dem Him Hom Zither de Boot, who had green skin) somehow managed to keep Dennis from doing too much damage. Slowly but steadily, the featureless patch of desert became a small, modest campsite with seven silken tents, each decorated with tassels and equipped with ensuites. Tall, open-flamed lanterns were poking out of the sand at apparently random points and in the center of the circle of tents was placed a large, well-built fire.

By the time the sun had begun to set, it was crackling away cheerfully, and the Board of Shamen were all perched upon logs around it. Well, most of them were, anyway. Wilhelmina seemed far more comfortable upon a bright orange beanbag and Tony Harrison had (somehow) climbed up onto an attractive, suede armchair. It wouldn't have been so bad, actually. As much as Saboo hated to admit it, even to himself, the pseudo-Xooberonian landscape was rather pretty by night. The fire was nice and warm, burning effectively (which, he told himself, had absolutely nothing to do with Tony’s kindling adjustments). Saboo could have dealt with the splinters in his fingers - he was a shaman, after all, and had made the actual chips of wood vanish long ago; the grazes still itched though. He could even have dealt with Naboo and Tony Harrison having a rather amiable discussion about Fleetwood Mac. But then a truly awful, horrific event occurred. Something so morbid and twisted, it made Saboo’s guts twist inside of him and a cold sweat break across his forehead. It was all he could do not to curl into a fetal position and suck his thumb. Bollo and Dennis discovered a mutual love of country music. From the first note the Head Shaman played on his harmonica, Saboo knew he had died and this - this was hell. He stared as Bollo ran off to fetch his ukulele. “Bollo, you wanker,” Naboo admonished as Bollo returned, instrument in hand. “There’s no way you’re...” He trailed off though as his eyes fell upon Saboo. Then, he grinned and Saboo's blood ran cold, fury, disbelief and terror intermingling. “Oh, please?” Bollo asked. “Bollo spend so long learning to play new Dolly Parton song...” “Alright, alright,” said Naboo. “Go ahead.” Wilhelmina clapped delightedly and Dennis beamed. Tony Harrison did that revolting thing where he waggled his tongue about to show enthusiasm. “Oh, come on,” Saboo objected desperately. “It’s Kirk’s birthday! You don't want to listen to bloody country music, do you?” Kirk grinned. “Yes.” Saboo hid his face in his hands miserably. <3 Needless to say, Saboo was not feeling at all charitable. The country themed, pot-infused sing-along lasted almost four hours, and would have gone all night if Dennis hadn't gone off his nut on second-hand marijuana smoke. At first, this had caused the situation to become even worse. The Head Shaman pranced around the fire like some kind of demented satyr, stealing Naboo's turban on the way. When he wore it, he looked like the Bollywood version of Voldemort, something which Saboo didn't hesitate to point out. Dennis didn't seem concerned though, responding, “Yes, my young squid, now follow me and do as I do lest the fates inspecteth our conjoined and damnedable souls.” A silence followed, in which everybody stared at Dennis (except Bollo, who was busy creating the atmospheric background music on his ukulele). Naboo took a deep drag of his joint. “Alright, Dennis,” Tony Harrison advised. “Just sit down a moment and drink some water, you raving loony.” Dennis fixed him with a very significant look, perching back upon his log. “Now, it is time. Time to commune with nature,” he announced, and proceeded to stare, unblinking, into the fire. For several minutes, the rest of the Board waited. Dennis was utterly unresponsive to any prodding or speaking though, except for when he occasionally raised a hand for quiet as if focusing on something vitally important. “Erm,” said Boot helpfully. “What-” “Let’s all ‘commune’,” suggested Naboo, taking a drag of his joint and giggling. “Dennis, you’re nothing but a fucking perve.” Dennis didn’t say or do anything, just staring. “We could continue with the country music anyway,” Naboo suggested, reaching for Dennis’s mouth organ. Right. That was it. Without giving any explanation, Saboo rose. He siezed Naboo's robes by the back of the collar and felt satisfied as he heard Naboo give a squeak as he was dragged backwards towards one of the tents, feet scrambling for purchase upon the sand. Saboo knew he couldn't stay in there; the others would suspect (they’d be foolish not to). Still, that didn't mean he couldn't put Naboo to bed and come back later.

#the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #boosh #saboo #naboo/saboo #naboo #naboo the enigma #dennis the head shaman #kirk #tony harrison

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disgrays-on · 7 years ago

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for whatever we lose

Word Count: 2.0k Pairing: Older!Damian Wayne // Fem!Reader

A/N: I have to really state that he’s much older here for obvious reasons. This is my take on what I feel has probably been done before. I didn’t enjoy this as much as I thought I would, so I cut it off where I did because it was starting to get long and draggy. However, I still do hope you enjoy, nonetheless!

When you find out that Damian Wayne is gone, you do not cry. Instead, you are numb. Your fingernails dig into your palms but you’ve stopped feeling anything ever since Dick told you, as gently as he could, his voice cracking and his eyes red. You do not wail, nor do you sob.

Outside, Gotham is burning but you can’t find it in yourself to care. She has taken your husband, the father of your child, away from you and you do not wish to care.

You do not rage. You do not threaten, nor do you curse the cruel twist of fate for taking him away from you, again. Instead, you stand with head held up high and lips pressed tight as you silently watch the rest of his family break. Even with the stinging behind your eyes, or the constricting of your throat. Even with the thought of the child you were carrying growing up without a father. You would not let yourself fall.

Good, you think, Let Gotham burn.

There is a morbid acceptance that comes with the words. Deep down, you had always known that the life that your husband has led from his childhood, the same one he continued to lead up to his adulthood, would end just like this. With the inevitable, ultimate heartbreak - the unbearable, restrained grief that came with the heart-wrenching loss and then the sober and private mourning. You do not wish to give whatever twisted destiny out there the satisfaction from your breaking.

But when Gotham falls, you run.

The place you leave for is bright and sunny. The blue skies are always clear, and it’s always warm, always perfect. Getting away had made sense as the next course of action because you needed it. You needed to get away from his family, away from the memories of him, away from everything that had anything to do with him. It tears at you sometimes, the fact that you had ran in the face of havoc and chaos, away from the people who you had grown to call family. But then you remember that this was the same family that had pushed you to this, and the guilt dissipates.

He’s gone and the only thing you would allow yourself to focus on was the baby you were carrying. His kid, your brain supplies, but the thought of him still hurts you like nothing else ever would.

You’re well into your second trimester before his family reaches out to you. You had expected a visit much earlier because it wasn’t exactly as if you had been trying to hide but you can appreciate the fact that they’ve given you space. Dick comes to you first with the kind smile that you’ve always known him for, bright even as your eyes blurred and fingers clenched around the doorknob. He gives you a hug, carefully navigating around the bump and when you pull back, you can just about see the gloss in his eyes. You return to a newly revived Gotham the next day, clutching at the arm Dick offers to you in silent solidarity.

The manor did not change in your absence but it’s still home. It’s been home for so long that you’re not sure that you can see it as anything but home. His family - you suppose they were your family too now - has not given up on your husband. There had been no body, no legitimate evidence of his death, not one speck of his blood anywhere. You didn’t think death would be so cruel (nor would it be so kind) as to take him and then return him back to you a second time. You don’t have the will to tell them to stop, to just let him rest and let him go, because it isn’t exactly like you’ve done that either. And while you are grateful that he had such a steadfast family, you wouldn’t allow yourself to be deluded by unattainable fantasies.

In the aftermath of everything that happened, they hold a funeral for him. It’s small with family and close friends only, but there are still too many people and you find yourself struggling to breathe. The emotions finally hit you like a tonne of bricks, crushing you under their weight, realisation finally sinking in. This was why you had run. Because now you really had to face the consequences. Now, it really feels like you’ve lost him. You don’t know how long you stand there, politely smiling and thanking everyone who offers you their condolences, but the only way you’ve been grounding yourself is by pressing your palm gently over your belly and feeling the little movements your baby makes from time to time. You can already hear the headlines.

All of Damian’s friends, the comrades he’s gained over the years, the people whose lives he’s touched just by being the same old lovable man, are present. You don’t know if this is how it goes whenever one in the hero community passes but there are more people here than you imagined there would be. It makes you feel better, feel just a bit happy that all of these people cherished Damian as much as you did.

The months go by and now, you’re uncomfortable almost all the time.

His family takes care of you in his stead. They’re not him but it’s nice to be close to someone who could relate to what you were feeling, if not more. You find yourself in the company of Dick a lot more. He’s always been dear to Damian - they were close and the love they had for each other was clear for everyone to see. You sit with him, reminiscing all the good memories and swapping tales of your husband. You have fun reading to both your baby and Cass who tucks herself into your side. Steph helps you sneak out of the manor in the most ridiculous manners she can come up with just so you could eat the disgustingly greasy fast food you had been craving for. Jason makes you food, and the both of you find comfort in cooking together. Tim is a steady presence when you feel just a bit too lonely. Titus lays at your feet when you get too emotional over a scene during a movie binge session. Sometimes, his closest friends drop by and you catch up.

His biological parents take similar approaches with you. Talia sits you down and makes you tea, right after she’s stolen you from when you were distracted and alone. She remains quiet and sips her tea as her eyes remained trained on you, silently urging you to drink yours. While you hadn’t really reached out to her, it is no surprise to you that she knows. She sends you off at the end of the day after you’ve shown her the pictures from your ultrasounds, with a small but satisfied smile. Bruce seems no different, if only just a bit more touchy and withdrawn, both of which was understandable. The fact that he stays this way horrifies you slightly because that would mean that he’s always been this way, always been so broken and hurt. But still, he treats you kindly, supports you in the way he does. He accompanies you in the comfortable silence of the kitchen while you take small mouthfuls of your drink. The sun is barely up in the sky but you find yourself unable to sleep because your body is tired and sore and missing your husband.

The baby was as much his as it was yours so you understand their need to be close to you. As the months go by, it doesn’t hurt so much to laugh and smile anymore.

The child, your child, your perfect little baby boy arrives early in the morning, all pink and loud as he cries while the sun begins to rise outside. Your family is around you with tears and smiles as you welcome your child to the world with a watery laugh and tears of your own. He is beautiful and the parts of you that have been broken in the time that you have lost your husband slowly mends itself with the birth of your son.

He grows to be an incredibly charming toddler. He reminds you of your husband sometimes and while thinking of him still leaves a slightly bitter taste in your mouth, your son also gives you the most joy you’ve ever felt. He wrinkles his tiny nose when he gets angry, blowing bubbles and gurgling defiantly. His giggles are as sweet as a cool breeze on a warm day, and whenever he smiles, the people around him fall in love with him even more. Bruce sits with him in his study and talks to him in low murmurs. Talia casually appears every once in a while, she acts pleasantly, coos over your son and your family makes sure that the two of you are not alone with her when she does. His aunts and uncles take turns looking over him, some more excitedly than others.

Your son is rarely ever far from you, not when you can help it. When you’re busy, he’s usually in the care of one of the many available babysitters or tucked into a baby seat but when you aren’t, he’s always tucked in your arm, or hoisted up onto your waist and playing with the strands of your hair that he can reach. He has the sweetest smiles, and your heart flutters whenever he directs one to you. It’s been more than a year since you received news of your husband, but you still tell stories about him to your son whenever you can. You take his giggles and high pitched laughter as his way of contributing. You can’t help but laugh along with him, tapping his nose whenever he gets too adorable for you.

One morning finds him missing from his crib, and your heart almost stops. The panic sets in but before you can even react, the sound of his cute little giggles calls you to your husband’s study, a room that you haven’t had the courage to step foot into since forever. Thousands of thoughts race through your head as you make your way to the room, the anxiety and guilt weighing you down, and almost none of the scenarios end all too pleasantly. You had let this happen, had let someone come into your home, had let him take your child. When you push the door open, the sight that greets you stops you in your tracks.

A man sits in one of the armchairs that your husband used to frequent and you have to clench your teeth to rein your anger. You almost fail when you realise where your baby is. Your son is sitting on the lap of this man, babbling as his pudgy little fingers reached up to pat the man’s cheek just a bit too harshly. The man doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he chuckles, a deep timbre that sounds so awfully familiar. The hope that bubbles in your chest vanish as easily as it had come because there was no possible way for it to be true. While you didn’t think there would ever be a moment in time when you would be over him, the fact was that your husband was gone.

Your baby is still talking excitedly to himself, bouncing slightly in the man’s lap with eagerness, still blissfully unaware of the potential danger that he was in. You’re moving to snatch your son away, to get him away from the man, even before you realise it. If he got hurt because of you, you would never forgive yourself.

But when you get a good look at the man, time stops.

You know this man.

There was nothing that would ever, could ever erase him from your mind.

“Damian?” You gasped, all the emotions rushing back and crashing down over you. Your stomach twists when he looks up to move his attention from your son to you, with the same face you’ve been missing and the lips that you’ve been craving, and smiles.

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autolovecraft · 7 years ago

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The moon was shining against it, held certain unknown and unnameable.

On October 29 we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the unfriendly sky, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the dismal railway station, was the oddly conventionalized figure of a dominating will outside myself. What the hound was, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and how we delved in the Holland churchyard? Mostly we held to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon was up, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the museum. We were no vulgar ghouls, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and we could not answer coherently. And as I. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and every night that the faint baying of some creeping and appalling doom. Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the commonplaces of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the presence of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

I had once violated, and a secret room, far, far, far, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and with headstones snatched from the long undisturbed ground.

The predatory excursions on which St John and myself. -Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but as we had seen it then, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. The predatory excursions on which St John must soon befall me. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the pale watching moon, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the presence of some creeping and appalling doom. An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Then we struck a substance harder than the night of September 24,19—, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and another time we thought we had heard in the vilest quarter of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the morning I read of a gigantic hound in the forbidden Necronomicon of the decadents could help us, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the faint baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the neighborhood. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the titanic bats, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the unfriendly sky, and he it was dark.

And when I spoke to him, and mumbled over his body one of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Four days later, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the world. -Wind, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we gave a last glance at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

Mostly we held to the secret library staircase. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. One evening as I.

I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the symbolists and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound in the background. Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or sphinx with a blow of my spade. Being now afraid to live alone in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the ecstasies of the symbolists and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some unspeakable beast. I read of a nameless deed in the museum. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and articulate chatter. Seizing the green jade object, we thought we heard the baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. When I arose, trembling, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound in the museum.

Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, the tales of the world.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #1922 #The Hound #The Hound week

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plasticnightmaredoll · 4 years ago

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Resident Evil 8: Village review (spoilers everywhere!)

Now, I want to start off by saying I've never been very interested in the "Resident Evil" games. I've always preferred the "Silent Hill" series because of how macabre the games are, the creepy symbolism behind the monsters, and the intense moments of fear despite having weapons (well, in most of the games at least). I like dark, twisted stuff, and "Resident Evil" seemed too...action-oriented for me, I guess?

However, I did finally get involved when I saw the trailer for "Resident Evil 7: Biohazard." I was shocked, but pleasantly so. Not only did it feature new characters, new locations, and a new disease, but it was in first person AND looked like a true survival horror game. I know some people may prefer the third-person perspective for RE games as that has always been one of their key characteristics, but I think horror games are much more effective in first person. They're more immersive because they give you the illusion of being in the game itself.

I really loved RE7, and still do. I actually have begun playing it again, the first time in a few years (I think 2019 was the last time I played through the game). I still see it as my favorite RE games and one of my favorite survival horror games, but I have enjoyed the "Resident Evil 2" and "Resident Evil 3" remakes and may play other games in the franchise just because.

Now, onto "Resident Evil 8: Village," a direct sequel to 7 (lol 8 does come after 7 but I mean that 8 is a continuation of the story introduced in 7. I mean, RE7 was not a sequel to RE6 at all). I was excited to see the franchise continuing with what it started in RE7, and while I did enjoy RE8, it does have some issues...nothing serious but things that prevent it from replacing RE7 as my favorite.

The Good:

There Four Lords and Mother Miranda were truly unique characters despite being bosses. I felt pity for all of them in one way or another and enjoyed learning their backstories. I think they are the most interesting and "human" villains in the RE games so far (at least, from what I've seen), and in games in general.

I felt so much pity for Moreau, though. He was such a tragic character, and I felt like I was putting him out of his misery by killing him. Clearly, there was something wrong with him mentally like his mental growth had been stunted and he thought and acted more like a child. His primary goals were to win the praise of the other three Lords since they didn't like him (I think Donna may have been ok with him but her mental health issues prevented her from expressing her feelings in a more effective and healthy manner) and to have Mother Miranda see him as her son. All these emotions over one character, a boss enemy, and possibly the least complex of the Lords and Miranda herself, I think demonstrate some fantastic writing. I mean, I've very rarely encountered bosses that I felt sorry for, and killing them was mercy.

Donna was a very strange character. She was the only one of the bosses who didn't transform into a monstrosity, and her boss fight was vastly different from anything else in the game. I liked it, though, for the most part, this sort of "calm" within a storm of deadly monsters and bloody battles. Of all the Lords and Mother Miranda herself, Donna was almost just there, like she was observing instead of actually participating. She respected Mother Miranda but, unlike the other three Lords, she seemed to prefer to live in her own little fantasy world with her dolls as her family and friends.

The graphics were, as expected, incredible. If you have a computer that can handle the game with high/max settings, it will look absolutely stunning. Also, the soundtrack was very fitting, but I don't have much concern for this trait unless the soundtrack is truly exceptional, which is rare -- or if the soundtrack is awful, which I have yet to encounter in a game.

I enjoyed the change in environment from RE7. I liked the creepy house in the woods and "ghost ship" in RE7, but RE8 had us in underground tunnels, a rundown village, a castle, a factory, a swamp town...I mean, you went all over the place, but it made the experience diverse and entertaining.

RE8 gave us a lot of answers to questions left by RE7, and, in some ways, enhanced that game's story. Finding out the truth behind Ethan's seemingly indestructible body was a twist I didn't expect. It did provide an answer for just how easy it was for him to literally patch himself up and put himself back together over and over again. It was no longer just "game logic."

Ending Ethan's story made sense. It was clear by the end of RE8 that his character had gone as far as possible, and it was time to switch gears. I'm curious as to how the next game will utilize Rose as a protagonist. She has powerful psychic abilities, unlike her father, and I don't think any other RE protagonist has had such abilities (as far as I know), so that could make for a very interesting gaming experience.

With that being said, I really do hope RE9 continues what was started in RE7 and developed further in RE8. I really do. I think there are plenty of things left to explore, plenty of room for some good twists and turns.

There weren't many puzzles in this game, but I didn't think it was such a bad thing. It was still a lot of fun to play with a reasonable amount of action-oriented challenges. There were so many bosses in this game, minibosses included, yet it never felt overwhelming or underwhelming. I thought the minibosses were fantastic "bridges" to each of the 5 main boss fights.

MAGNUM IS BEST WEAPON. Seriously, what is it with these types of guns and their insane amount of power? I liked the grenade launcher as well, despite how slow it was to reload. The use of flashbangs proved to be much more useful than the grenades themselves, oddly enough. I know they have been in other RE games, but they were much more essential in RE8.

The pacing was perfect. I felt like the game was the appropriate length, not overstaying its welcome nor leaving players underwhelmed by lack of content. I mean, I still wish it were longer but that's only because of how entertaining it is to play. Leaving players wanting more but in a positive sense indicates that the game was planned thoroughly with a lot of attention to detail.

Miranda's and Moreau'sboss fights were the most challenging in the game. Both were endurance battles and required you to move quickly and think fast and basically just survive until they died. Ammo was very important in both boss fights because the right weapons made things much easier but if you didn't have enough ammo for them, well...you're going to have a more intense challenge.

My favorite "location" was the Dimitrescu castle. I like the elegant "antique" aesthetic of old castles and houses/mansions.

Unlike in RE7, RE8 does allow you to upgrade some of your weapons, which makes things easier if just to allow your guns to hold more ammo before needing to reload. You also didn't need to pull out a weapon to open crates. If you "interacted" with one, Ethan automatically used his knife to break it. RE7 made you do it manually which was a little annoying, especially during fights.

RE7 pretty much just had the Bakers and mold monsters as enemies. They all put up a good fight, but RE8 has a much wider range of enemies: wolfmen, zombies, flying zombie bats, werewolves, cyborg monstrosities, witches (well, if you consider the Dimitrescu daughters as witches, and they kind of are), a gross but pitiful fishman, a mentally disturbed doll maker, and an egocentric engineer. Variety added another layer of difficulty and surprise to the game since it wasn't always the same enemy types popping up to get you.

Mixed Thoughts:

Donna's boss fight was unlike any other fight in the game -- or any game, really. It was a morbid hide and seek challenge that was a nice change of pace but I do wish it had been a bit more difficult. I liked the concept, and it suited Donna, but it was the easiest boss fight in the game, almost like it was a miniboss fight instead. Good concept, but weak execution.

RE8 allows you to upgrade weapons, but RE7 doesn't, and while it may sound like RE8 has the upper hand, I disagree. RE7's lack of weapon enhancements/upgrades made the game more difficult because what you saw was what you got, and you had to make do. You didn't have the option to make your weapons hold more ammo or shoot faster or deal more damage.

The Bad:

Most of the boss fights were...rather easy? Minibosses included. The only ones that posed a real threat were Moreau and Miranda. Everyone else was just standard boss fodder, unfortunately. In RE7, I felt that, while there were far fewer boss fights, they all were much more demanding and exciting.

Lady Dimitrescu was such a fun character, and yet, she was only in the game for a short time, and her boss fight was just so-so. With all the marketing surrounding her before the game was released, I expected her to have a much larger role in the game.

They had an opportunity to make Miranda a sympathetic villain seeing as how the loss of her daughter basically drove her to madness. However, the way she was portrayed, I honestly didn't feel any sympathy for her, which was a shame. If she had been portrayed as a more tragic, broken character, then it would have made the final boss fight very emotional since you would feel some guilt killing her knowing what she's been through.

Not very scary. I mean, it's not a terrible thing, but for a game that is part of the survival horror genre, I felt like RE8 focused on the action a little too often. It was an intense experience just not a chilling one. RE7 had so much tension and atmosphere that it truly played out like a survival horror game.

Overall, I do like "Resident Evil 8: Village" and want to play it several more times. It bested "Resident Evil 7: Biohazard" in a few ways, namely with a diversity of enemies and customizable weapons but it fell short in the horror department and mishandled most of its bosses.

Final Grade: B+

For reference:

Resident Evil 7: A

Resident Evil 2 (2019 Remake): A-

Resident Evil 3 (2020 Remake): B-

#resident evil village #re8 #horror game #resident evil #survival horror #lady dimitrescu #salvatore moreau #mother miranda #resident evil 7 #resident evil 8 #re village #queued post

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autolovecraft · 7 years ago

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This is the last rational act I ever performed.

The enigmas of the kingly dead, and it ceased altogether as I. It was incredibly tough and thick, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the museum. When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the lamps in the forbidden Necronomicon of the city.

The baying was loud that evening, and mumbled over his body one of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and I knew that what had befallen St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and mumbled over his body one of our penetrations. Now, however, we thought we saw the bats descend in a body to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the grave as we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had so lately rifled, as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the museum.

I approached the ancient house on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality.

It was the bony thing my friend and I saw a black shape obscure one of the unknown, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and in the hidden museum, and in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. After that we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the decadents could help us, and without servants in a distant corner; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the lamps in the Dutch language. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. The jade amulet now reposed in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and he it was the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and how we delved in the vilest quarter of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that lay within; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the forbidden Necronomicon of the decadents could help us, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I know not how much later, whilst we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.

It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the damp mold, and the night of September 24,19—, I staggered into the house, and mumbled over his body one of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the single door which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard? Wearied with the commonplaces of a nameless deed in the corridor.

His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we had heard in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. Fancying it St John's, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a gigantic hound. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John was always the leader, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. As we heard a knock at my chamber door. Only the somber philosophy of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-symbol of the damp mold, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Four days later, whilst we were troubled by what we read. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Mostly we held to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the faint far baying we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. There was no one in the water. In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons. Then we struck a substance harder than the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been torn to ribbons. It is not, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the grave, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast. The enigmas of the uncovered-grave. The predatory excursions on which St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. There was no one in the Dutch language. I aroused St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the lamps in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the grave-robbing.

But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. There was no one in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and in the background.

We only realized, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I saw on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the taxidermist's art, and it ceased altogether as I.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #1922 #The Hound #The Hound week

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