#or some fun space names

[dakrisart]

I'll be guest starring on a Podcast soon and I am so excited to infodump about astronomy aaaah!!!

[crystalpallette]

frye inspires this sort of manic "i can do whatever i want" kinda will in people and god. I sure did do whatever I wanted here

[bruhstation]

some tugboat gijinkas for the semi-anticipated casa tidmouth prequel. glory to america

[bumblingbabooshka]

Tom & B'Elanna give off closeted gay vibes in that I think if you asked them to describe their ideal woman and man they would respectively describe a swimsuit model (bonus: who's Not Like Other Girls) and the lead in some sort of romantic novel. Nothing even close to a real person. The most generic you can get about straight romantic and sexual attraction.

[bams-2]

Drew Kato in that new outfit from the anniversary post because its a cool fucking outfit. The hat is currently away as it is very sick, please wish it a speedy and safe recovery

you know that city in the background was supposed to be Kumo city but it came out looking nothing like it. It does look cool at least.

[yellowvixen]

Completely forgot that JUICE (JUpiter ICy moon Explorer) (space probe) has a piece of equipment called RIME

They 100% gave it that title on purpose so the acronym would be RIME btw. Because it has to do with ice. And they're all NERDS (affectionate).

Anyway Rime the Cat is REAL and in space!!!

[fiddles-ifs]

"Hey Kiddo." [GREENWARDEN ANNIVERSARY SNIPPET]

Sometimes, when Dad isn't home, Mom lets you watch cartoons at the diner in town, lets you meet other kids at the park. Always home before sunset. Always wearing a hat. Never tell Dad where you went, what you did. Never stay for too long in one place.

Sometimes people from town stop Mom in the streets and ask how she's been, their eyes all a-worried. Asking if she can stay over at theirs one of these days, catch up, and she always declines with a look your way. There's a deep sadness etched on her face. It reminds you of the rocks at the beach. You see the same face worn into their sides by the unrelenting, salted tide.

Sometimes Dad doesn’t come home, out deep in the woods somewhere. That’s when Mom takes you out for ice cream at the diner and lets you watch cartoons as much as you want, and talks in hushed voices with people you don’t know. Their faces are friendly – but they look at you like you’re a monster. Something with teeth waiting to pounce. A few even look like they hate you. You feel it in the soles of your feet, bare on the tile.

Dad is home tonight. He has you out in the woods today, watching you from a log as you scratch a big buck between the antlers, its head bowed to give your stubby arms a little more access. It snorts and takes two paces backward when Dad gets up from the log and puts his big anvil hand on the top of your head. 

You can't help the flinch. He ruffles your hair. Slowly.

That is not your father.

“What's it thinking, kiddo?”

“Uhm,” you look at the buck, watching your dad with unblinking eyes. The animals don't really have thoughts. None that you can hear, anyway — you feel their minds through the soles of your feet, up into your shoulders. The squirrels and deer, the pillbugs under the rocks. The big buck takes another step back.

“I dunno?” Dad's hand on your head stops. Your little heart starts a hammering rhythm in your ribcage.

“Try again.”

Whose memories are these?

“It's — scared?” No, not scared. You don't know the word. If it were scared, it would have run — but the big buck just stands there. Watching.

In town, there's a big church with gargoyles (like the cartoon) sitting on the edge of the roof, staring down at the sidewalks. It's like that. If there's a word for it, you don't know it. You can barely read, all your schooling spent in the woods learning how to track, hunt, and bend the woods to your chubby hand.

You stick your fingers in your mouth to chew on. They taste like game grease and fur and a little bit of grit.

Your dad hums. A stick somewhere deep in the woods snaps, and suddenly the buck runs off. You wave bye-bye to it. The pillbugs and squirrels and whippoorwills scatter at the sound. You turn to squint into the black. There's a monster in there somewhere — you feel the emptiness on the soles of your bare feet, the surface skin of your arm.

Dad pats you on the head and turns you toward the house, pushing your shoulders a little. You almost fall. You scrape up the top of your foot on a rock catching yourself, blood bubbling from the split skin.

Not yours not yours this is not yours.

“Go on — your momma's waiting.”

“Okay!” When you run off, your heart finally slows to a metered rhythm. Somewhere, deep behind you, you hear the sound of crunching and ripping flesh.

[termagax]

re: "good girl" i think they say it once randomly as a joke and its just one of those things that gets him wayyy more than they expected it would. so now its their secret weapon and they use it very sparingly and every single time he gets super embarrassed about it but it works ill tell you what.

[ask-thearchivists]

Do you collectors have any holidays or festivals or whatnot you celebrate?

{It's going under a read more this got way too long.}

The Charmer: The Coordinator knows more about these things than any of us. Due to our lifespans we perceive time slightly differently than you, and due to the complete and utter lack of a planet we could designate as home, our way of measuring time is unfamiliar to your own traditions. We have large celebrations for personal milestones, we have other celebrations for certain astrological events specific to our assigned galaxy, that you might compare to a "holiday" as we do celebrate. But they happen over such an extended period of time with even more time in-between that the festivities and practices we adopt would seem incomprehensible to you.

The Cartographer: Oh I remember some of the major holidays. There is only one holiday I recall that works on a scale larger than Galactic, Which is the celebration of the Grand Constellation. I don't think she ever explained what that is, but it's what we refer to the Universe as. On planets, constellations are made of stars, for us in space we are moving through the stars so quickly that any one solar system's constellations mean nothing to us very quickly. Instead we measure things using the Grand Constellation, an expanse so great that even the quickest and most skilled Collectors may never be able to travel it completely.

The Cartographer: So anyways we celebrate the creation of the Grand Constellation once a Comet for the length of 100 Orbits. That's 1/1000th of the length of a Comet, so pretty reasonable. Uuuh, an Orbit is similar to one year for your species. It is celebrated at the end of a Comet, so we finished our last, and first, Flare celebration 23 Orbits ago. None of us are old enough to have had one previously. Besides that the holidays we celebrate mark certain things in our assigned galaxy. We have Galactic Equinoxes and Solstices, these are measured by tracking the orbit of the closest inhabited solar system to the center of the galaxy, seasonal attributes are assigned according to the cardinal directions of the Grand Constellation. The Autumnal Equinox will actually begin next Orbit, and last for 10 Orbits.

The Cartographer: The festivities for our Autumnal Equinox involve mourning traditions, because it is symbolic of the inevitable decline in life anything that lives will face. For the first five Orbits we fast as much as we are able while still conducting our jobs, really traditional Collectors will cut their hair short, but this is not necessary. The last five orbits we feast by indulging more in our consumption of astral energies and radiations. Another practice is Oblivion, where we enact minor changes to our Collecting, like if Cleaning is determined as necessary during the Equinox we abstain from the burning of the planet. Instead, we Collect everything with our star constructs according to minimum criteria as quickly as possible, and then leave them. I think it's...silly, it's meant to enforce to the mortals their powerlessness in the face of grand cosmic indifference.

The Curator: For our own personal milestones we celebrate new births by feasting on a dying star, allowing the newborn to eat as much as they want, hoping they will grow strong and powerful as an adult. First Collections are very important, and unless there is something extremely aberrant, we are meant to only guide. This is a sort of birthday celebration by the way. Another sort of birthday celebration is the Naming Ceremony. This is the last birthday a Collector will be super tiny and mortal sized, before growing into the size they will be as an adult Collector, and we commemorate this with the official assignment of their title and job in the Archive, thus becoming an official Archivist. It would be the second birthday after the First Collection, or about 500 Orbits later. The last major milestone before typical ones like living for your first Comet and such, is the celebration of the Collector becoming an adult, and earning the full responsibilities of their job. This happens 1,500 orbits after the previous one.

[familiaanteomnia]

Vesp 100% is prone to editing details, not always just in terms of lying but lots of "Does the planet/century and location really matter to this connecting with somebody else over the topic of climbing rocks as kids?"

-Prefers to keep it vague, universal type of things and avoid lots of assumed to be common knowledge things. Which is also an interesting speed bump given how much enjoys hearing about moments in others lives & sharing personal tales. The bonding of it- is also an go to in crises to help regulate emotions.

-Things in common though? Rock/tree climbing, running around, book reading, splashing in water, bedtime stories and so on. Plus it's usually safe to mention things like "Oh I've read that book on your shelf, was laying around so I borrowed it from my parent and gave up on chapter 3 till I gave it an real read later on in life."

[words-with-wren]

@chrumblr-whumblr Day Six: Alternate prompt--Betrayal

Fandom: Original work/Greek Mythology. I've been vaguely developing a sci-fi take on the Odyssey focusing on Telemachus because I love my boy. It's also tying in Ascanius, Aeneas' son from the Aeneid, and Antgone, from the play of that name. This particular scene is set reasonably late in the picture, after Odysseus's return and the main characters have met up. Also pulling in some aspects of the Telegony

Word count: 1,319

__

“Can you teach me how to fly?” 

Telemachus glanced sideways at the young boy, hands clasped neatly behind his back, dark eyes staring up at him hopefully. He glanced back to the window, at the stars glowing around them. 

“No,” he said simply. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Telegonus’ shoulder’s slump. For a moment, he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty--he remembered being that age. He remembered how desperately he wanted to learn all of the things a warrior should know. He remembered no one being willing to teach him. “Not right now,” he amended. 

The boy immediately brightened at that, moving forward to lay a hand on the back of Telemachus’ chair. 

“What does that do?” he asked, pointing towards a series of buttons on the dashboard. Telemachus glanced at them, then back at the boy. 

“I said not right now,” he said. He barely knew how to pilot this ship himself, it was all mostly made up as he went. Teaching this boy did not seem appealing. “Go find Ascanius.” 

“But I want you to teach me.” 

Telemachus didn’t say anything, just continued staring at the stars in the far distance around them. 

“It’s your bedtime,” he said finally. 

“I don’t have a bed time!” Telegonus protested. 

“You do now.” Making sure the ship was on its programmed course, he stood. ���Come on.” 

“You’re not serious,” Telegonus cried. 

Telemachus knew he was being unfair. The boy was not really a boy anymore, bordering on manhood. And he remembered being that age, being so determined to be grown up, so eager to be an adult. 

But he had little patience for this young man, and for the reminders he received every time he saw him. The familiarity of his face, the foreignness of his eyes. 

“Then go find someone else to bother,” he said finally, crossing his arms. Telegonus stared at him for a long time, then crossed his own arms and echoed Telemachus’ stance. The effect was diminished somewhat by being half the size and twelve years old. 

“We’re supposed to be brothers, aren’t we? That’s what my mother said.

“Get out of my cockpit,” Telemachus said, reaching the end of his patience. Telegonus let out an angry huff and threw his hands in the air. 

“Isn’t family supposed to look out for each other!” he cried. 

“You’re not my family,” Telemachus said. Telegonus fixed him with a long, watery stare. Then he let out a long huff of air and turned to storm out of the cockpit. Telemachus leaned against his chair and covered his face with his hand. 

He stood there for a long moment and then decided he needed something to drink. With one last look at the flight controls, confirming he wouldn’t be needed, he made his way out of the cockpit and towards the small kitchen galley on the ship. 

They were almost out of coffee he noted mournfully. If they could manage it, they needed to do a supply run soon. He regretfully made a half strength coffee, not in bad enough a mood to use so much of it and deprive someone else.  

“You’re hard on the kid.” 

A voice came from behind him and he started, turning to see Antigone, leaning against the wall beside the door. A mug was in her hand--presumably her signature tea blend. 

“I don’t have to be nice to him,” Telemachus said. He stared at the pale coffee dripping into his mug. 

“Yeah, but you’re not this hard on Ascanius, and he’s not that much older.” She stepped forward, taking a sip of tea. “You’re mean.” 

Telemachus didn’t answer for a long moment, waiting until his coffee had finished being made. Then he retrieved it and took a long sip. Far too weak. 

“There’s nothing in life that says I have to be nice,” he said finally, turning around. She raised an eyebrow. 

“Telemachus, I’ve known you barely a month. But I know the way you behave around that kid--it’s not you.” 

He sighed, wrapping his hands around his mug and leaning against the kitchen counter. The ship was humming under them, a familiar background song. 

“He’s just a kid--more than that,” Antigone tapped her knuckles on the table that spanned the center of the kitchen. “He’s your brother.” 

“Not really,” Telemachus said automatically. Antigone shrugged. 

“Yeah, people said that about my brother. You share the same father. You have the same blood.” 

Telemachus took another long sip of his coffee, not caring that it burned his tongue on the way down. 

“Yeah. Father,” he said bitterly. The word felt heavy on his tongue, tasted of shattered dreams and broken promises. Antigone didn’t say anything, just waited, mug in one hand, the other resting on the table. 

He tapped a finger against the top of his mug, turning to stare across the room at the screen showing the stars outside. 

“Every time I look at that kid, I think about everything my father wasn’t,” he said finally. And now that he had started talking, he felt the need to speak more, to say everything. “I spent my childhood hearing stories about him, building him up in my mind. The great Odysseus, hero of Troy, Star-sailer. I spent my life expecting him home, waiting to know who he was. I spent my life watching my mother wait for him.

“And then he came home and he was everything I expected him to be. Great, heroic, a warrior. He swept all my problems away and my mother into his arms and I saw her happy for the first time in my entire life. Actually happy, happy and in love. Joyful and hopeful. I saw her waiting rewarded. And I had a chance to know my father.” 

He sighed, staring down at his coffee, watching the too-pale liquid reflect his face back at him. 

“And then he betrayed that. I had an image of him, a perfect hero. And he wasn’t that. He was a paranoid, broken old man who had neglected his family and betrayed my mother. And everytime I look at that boy, I remember twenty years of waiting and a man who shattered my entire life.” 

He looked up at Antigone, who had been listening silently, a fact he was immensely grateful for. 

“He exiled me for a crime I might commit. He betrayed my mother, who waited so loyaly for him, gave up twenty years of her life for him. And she doesn’t even care.” 

He gripped his mug, knuckles turning white around it, remembering a childhood of stories and promises and an adulthood of those stories and promises turning to ash around him. 

“It’s not the kid’s fault,” Antigone said quietly. 

“I know,” Telemachus said. “But I can’t look at him without remembering, and I can’t remember without being so angry.” 

“Fathers,” Antigone said dryly. Telemachus nodded in agreement and they both took a long sip of their drinks. “But don’t punish Telegonus for something he hasn't done.” She fixed him with a long expression and Telemachus sighed heavily. 

“I hate how much I’m like him,” he said softly. Antigone laughed at that, a soft, bitter laugh. 

“You’re like him in good ways as well,” she said. “Find those.” 

“I can try.” He gave another long breath, pushing himself off the counter and taking a long swallow to finish his coffee. It wasn’t very good anyway. “I guess I can start by apologising to Telegonus.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Antigone said. She took another sip of her tea and settled herself into a seat at the table. “You and the kid together, now that’ll give your old man some nightmares.” 

“I’m not sure I want that,” Telemachus said, almost to himself. Maybe part of him was still ten years old and wanted the warrior hero father to come home. 

Maybe part of him always would be.

[beigetiger]

I really like gods in D&D, especially Bahamut, and I’ve been playing around with the idea of manifestations so I made this.

He’s a manifestation of Bahamut and his current name is Florence Gaillard, although that stands subject to change. His purpose in campaigns is to silently torment the players by just being unnerving and creepy, especially towards players who aren’t great people. Every inn they go to is run by him, he constantly looks like a cross between an elf and a chihuahua, he looks at them intensely whenever they do and say something wrong, and he gives them small directions and tips that turn out to be very useful to the players. Small things that make the DM’s life easier, but with everything done specifically so that the players suspect him of being a demon.

He will also help out unfortunate NPCs, since he is Bahamut, and he will try to sabotage the players if they are doing anything immoral against the poor and unfortunate (and they can catch him doing this).

And I’d also like to yap a bit about my ideas for manifestations. Basically, gods can’t really manifest themselves on the material plane except in extremely specific circumstances, but can create manifestations, who look and act like normal(ish) people, in order to do tasks.

There’s lots of room for variety for manifestations. Gods can have multiple active at once, and they are capable of talking and physically interacting with each other. Not all manifestations also know that they are manifestations or connected to a god in any way, and may spend their time wondering why small details about the world sometimes seem to bend to their will. They will also all have wildly different personalities; for example, a manifestation of Bahamut could be a noble paladin protecting the weak from evil, or they could be a Robin Hood type character who spends their time tormenting the rich for their sins, or they could be a little gremlin who keeps their eyes on troublesome players at all times. Despite this, all manifestations hold the same core beliefs and values as their god.

Manifestations do not have biological families, even if they may think they do or have memories of a biological family. The gods create them in whatever form they’re in and then send them off. They can create found families if they so want, but most end up kind of separated from society.

Although they may have small powers associated with their god, whether they realize it or not, they are still effectively mortal and the players can kill them. If a god is feeling petty (as it goes with Florence), then they can just recreate the manifestation and put them back. Gods are also fully aware of what is happening with their manifestations at all times.

[trekkele]

*author has read comics but does not feel obligated to perform canon compliance for you

[unnonexistence]

inspiration on that new silly one-shot fic ran out but luckily writing is still Going

[bubaluv]

Kitty Puppy Bunny!

[ruvviks]

making new ocs is like crack cocaine to me