#particularly the 'and some good ideas' part

[libraryogre]

I wrote something similar to this... less aboyt unfucking specific ancestries, and more about the philosophies behind racism in RPGs.

So, recently, I've started saying "More Pratchett than Tolkien" to describe my approach to D&D (and other RPGs, but it seems to be more an issue with those who prefer older versions of D&D). But what do I see that as meaning? I've got a few points on this; mostly what I perceive as being the core parts of a "Tolkien" mindset of game worlds, versus a "Pratchett" mindset. Note that I am not ascribing these opinions specifically to JRR Tolkien, but rather than Lord of the Rings is frequently invoked as defense of them. After this, I'll avoid referring to this as "Tolkien" or words derived from that; my statement is pithy, better for a signature than discussion.

1) Racism as a necessary component

One of the primary objections to playing a "humanoid" character is that the character will face insurmountable racism; the 1e DMG says "So unless the player desires a character which will lurk alone somewhere and be hunted by adventurers", before going on to explain that one might want to play a gold dragon, because it can look human, but that no gold dragon would want to do this. The games will often include something like a "Basic Acceptability of Racial Types" table; 1e has one in the PH to cover humans and demi-humans, and the DMG has one to cover most types of humanoids in their interactions with each other; Hackmaster includes it in the PH. With this, it is argued, the game wouldn't be "realistic".

Leaving aside the conception of a world which must, necessarily, include often violent racism, it also shows a lack of imagination, or consideration of the nature of the world presented in D&D and similar games... while many different species live in the world, Good and Evil are real and quantifiable things, and there are gods who can communicate relatively freely with their worshipers on the Prime Material (if they don't live there themselves). A view where violent, unexamined racism can leave one still aligned as "Good" is one that is alien to any understanding of the word "Good" that I have, much less the definition of "Good" as laid out in the 1e DMG. "Basically stated, the tenets of good are human rights, or in the case of AD&D, creature rights. Each creature is entitled to life, relative freedom, and the prospect of happiness. Cruelty and suffering are undesirable." (p 23) How is this compatible with the idea that Good people can freely kill non-combatants of "evil" races?

A particularly evident argument of this is seen in half-orcs (and, in Hackmaster, half-hobgoblins). The 1e PH states that "some one-tenth of orc-human mongrels ore sufficiently non-orcish to pass for human." (p 17). Hackmaster has "Note that even where hobgoblins are acceptable, half-hobgoblins are mistreated and disliked by the locals. Half-hobgoblins share a special bond with half-orcs,alongside whom they are often persecuted as beastly monsters." (HM PH, 31) Despite both being specifically being called out as being non-sterile hybrids, the only consideration is that all half-humanoids will "will always have an human mother and have been born and raised in human lands" and be "The offspring of questionable parentage and violent couplings" (HM PH, 31); none will be, for example, the offspring of a mommy sil-karg and a daddy sil-karg who love each other very much. Hackmaster mentions that "The city of Prompeldia has developed a sizable sil-karg quarter that is threatening to become large enough to count as its own culture." (HM PH, 31). But all will be "The offspring of questionable parentage and violent couplings."

A Pratchett-style view of the game does not pretend that racism does not exist, but rather disputes the idea that it is insurmountable. The dwarves and trolls of Ankh-Morpork do begin with hatred, but they reach an uneasy peace when forced into proximity by the city. Sam Vimes, like many in the city, is riddled with prejudices about non-humans and the undead, but he overcomes them as he deals with them as people. Some of this is inspired by Carrot, the human raised by dwarves, who still considers himself a dwarf in many respects... but also respects all people, learning their names and treating them as citizens, not as trolls or gargoyles.

2) Race as unbending identity

"Humans with pointy ears" is frequently invoked when you have a non-human character who is perceived to act unlike their stereotype, or one of the acceptable range of stereotypes. Are your dwarves "not dwarven enough?" Does he like wine instead of ale? Does he shave his beard? Is he a dagger wielding tunnel rat, instead of a chain-mail clad warrior with an axe? You're playing a short human, not a REAL dwarf.

This also tends to get invoked when dealing with traditionally hostile non-humans. An elf or dwarf might violate their racial alignment, but a good orc? Unheard of. It's argued that it is impossible for any of the "humanoids" to be other than their Monster Manual entries, despite that never really being written anywhere, and several counter-examples, especially from 2nd edition (such as the Monster Mythology deity who prizes his good bugbear converts). Gary Gygax, revered by many old school gamers, even stated "The old addage [sic] about nits making lice applies", referring to noted proponent of genocide John Chivington's statements about Native Americans. As I have argued before, Dungeons and Dragons owes a lot to Westerns, and the attitude towards humanoids in a game tends to mirror the attitude towards Native Americans in contemporary Westerns; in Chato's Land (1973), you have a half-Indian protagonist, while Dances with Wolves (1990) presents the Native Americans as the sympathetic characters.

One objection to having the possibility of non-evil humanoids is the idea that a DM may use these as "gotchas"... "You killed all of these orcs but they were secretly good so now you're all evil!". But this argument fails, in my opinion, as one could also use that as an argument against DMs... "We found a vorpal sword in a crypt guarded by a skeleton with no legs!" It is always possible for a bad DM to make a bad game.

A more Pratchett-style game recognizes that the stereotypes exist, and may be the norm, but they are not the only way characters of that race can be played. Pratchett's dwarves are uniformly male-presenting, with beards and axes and iron boots, with one's actual sex being so concealed that the beginning of a dwarven courtship is "find out if the person is the correct gender." In Feet of Clay, however, we're introduced to Cheri Littlebottom, a dwarf woman who doesn't want that. She wants dresses and jewelry, lipstick and high heels welded to her iron boots. It is noted to be unusual. Other dwarves react with disgust... but it also doesn't make her impossible to exist as a character. Other examples include trolls who join the watch, vampires in the Überwald League of Temperance who abstain from intelligent blood, and golems who buy their freedom to become their own selves.

3) Only certain races are proper.

Some of this ties into the distinctions drawn between humans, demi-humans (elves, dwarves, gnomes, and halflings), semi-humans (half-elves, half-orcs, half-hobgoblins), and humanoids (orcs, goblins, gnolls, etc.). In the older game mindset, players should only be humans, demi-humans, and semi-humans; anything else is too weird or outlandish. For this, I will set aside the humanoids; I feel the objections to them are largely addressed above. This is addressed to what are often seen as the more exotic races... dragonborn, warforged, tabaxi, and the like.

The older mindset tends to describe these are unnecessary. I've even had someone describe the non-evil drow, minotaurs, and other uncommon races described as "played out", as if the dwarves with beards and axes griping at the elves of the forests isn't itself cliche at this point. The small stable of relatively human races is seen as a bonus... provided they don't go outside "appropriate" for their species, that they're human-like is enough. Orcs and humanoids are rejected as above, but there's also examples like Lizardfolk (who have always been Neutral, if cannibals) who are part of the world, but considered too out there for PCs.

The Pratchett-inspired game eschews this; while golems are unusual in Ankh-Morpork, and certainly powerful (more powerful than you might want in a low-level game), Warforged are a similar idea, but rendered playable. Tabaxi represent a different kind of character than "short and resistant to magic in some way". Dragonborn evoke the namesake of the game, again providing a different sort of character to play. That these exist don't invalidate the options to play elves, dwarves, and halflings. A Pratchett-inspired game will have a more cosmopolitan approach to races, both in terms of racism (as above), and in terms of options.

Unfucking Dungeons & Dragons

The concept of some humanoid or near-humanoid species being naturally inclined to evil is a racist one, and, unfortunately, a prevalent one in Dungeons & Dragons, exacerbated by the fact that these “evil species” are frequently the “ugly” ones. Drow are a particularly glaring example - “made black because of their ‘evil’”?! Fuck you - but the duergar - “the slaves … learned only to enslave, really makes you think don’t it” - and the orcs - “they feel the CALL to evil in their Gruumshy HEARTS” - are also super not good. (There’s also a fair degree of ableism, with “insane” monsters - in such cases, I honestly think “unaligned” would be a better description for “too far gone to understand morality”. Evil implies a choice.) Honestly, I wouldn’t mind so much if these weren’t supposed to be naturally-occurring species - always evil demons or fey are fine, because they’re made of magic and stories, although care should of course be taken not to make them look like naturally-occurring species - but elves are really just fragile pointy-eared monkeys, and they have excuses. However, these evil humanoids are also genre staples and often quite aesthetically good. To that end, I offer the Unfucking D&D Guide, which provides what I think are solutions to this problem. (It should be noted that I am whiter than plain yogurt, so my ideas should be taken with a grain of salt and definitely not take precedence over the ideas of non-white folks. If I’ve said something fucked-up in this, please let me know and I’ll fix it.)

Duergar. Keep the “enslaved by illithids, made grim & psionic” bit, toss the “learnt evil from them” part. The duergar are joyless, or can appear so - you can play them either as gloomy and fatalistic or as eccentric and unreasonably concerned with “corruption” - but despite whatever mood they possess, make sure that they are thoroughly dedicated to making sure the horrors of the Underdark stay in the Underdark, and are as righteous and honorable as their hill and mountain cousins.

Derro. The derro are an “insane” species; I bring them up only because I saw them confused with duergar in one post about racism in D&D. Their lore has not been constant - the current lore is “dwarves enslaved by illithids, tortured into madness, and now they’re eeeeeeeevil”, which is ableist, not racist - but their metatextual origin is among the detrimental robots, or Deros, of pulp author Richard Sharpe Shaver’s stories (or possibly delusions). “Born from the dreams of a mad author” would actually be good lore if you can make that author a tragic sufferer of schizophrenia in a time before it was understood rather than an ~*~eViL mAdMaN~*~, but in any event, change their type to construct, fey, or fiend, and, most importantly, don’t take them seriously. The derro are pulp villains, and their evil is grandiose and nonsensical. They ought not to be seen as realistic; they ought to be seen as Snidely Whiplash, Commander Claw, or Heinz Doofenshmirtz. “Reasons” are for other genres.

Drow. Return drow to their mythical roots as trow, nocturnal hunters, tricksters, and magical artisans dwelling in the hollow hills. There’s high and wood elves; dark elves can find a niche. Lolthite culture is good villain fodder, but make sure that you can handle an “evil religion”, and make sure that all types of elves participate.

Goblinoids and trolls. Make them fey, and abandon Tolkien for Rossetti and folktale. Goblins make cruel bargains; hobgoblins attend faerie courts; bugbears hide in closets and create electricity from feed on children’s screams; trolls lurk under bridges and love riddles. As fey, they’re not evil, simply alien and lacking in empathy towards mortals.

Gnolls. If you use the Volo’s lore, change their type to fiend and be done with it. If you want to have them be natural humanoids, go read Ursula Vernon’s Digger for the best-written hyaena-furries in literature and base gnolls off that once you’re done crying.

Kobolds. Kobolds are already draconic cleaner wrasses in lore; there’s no reason that metallic dragons can’t enjoy them as well and influence some populations to good.

Illithids. The mind flayers certainly have great potential as villains. However, there is nothing about their psychology that impels them thither. Their biological requirements could easily be met by feeding on those close to death, whom I might imagine would willingly donate their brains as food or tadpole incubators in exchange for a painless death and the surety that their memories would live on in the illithid. Also, create food and water spells exist.

Ogres. Ogres are wilderness-dwellers who prefer to maintain their personal territories through fear instead of actual force of arms; the idea of the monstrous, anthropophagous ogre is a deliberate sham. They are actually capable of great heroism, even if they aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed and okay to be honest I started out trying to build up to a Shrek joke but I think I’d take this over canon lore.

Orcs. Orcs are an easy fix; all you need to do is remove Gruumsh from the equation and they don’t have a bullshit “call to evil”; in Eberron, without objective gods, the people of the Shadow Marches believe that half-orcs are the proof that orcs and humans are one people, so there’s even in-game precedent for orcs as members of society.

Yuan-ti. There are two ways to do this. One is to dump all the lore and just have sexy snake cults, although don’t dress them like Asian or Aztec stereotypes like a lot of the art does. (The 3.5 Monster Manual yuan-ti pureblood looks like she’s constantly accompanied by an inappropriate bamboo flute riff, I swear to Istus.) A sexy snake cult (and I am including malisons, abominations, and anathemas in the term “sexy”, not just purebloods) should be fun for everyone.

The other way is to keep their personalities and dump everything else, because if you keep that, you get truly excellent villains. I mean, these fuckers. How dare they drag something as pure as snakes into their Ayn Rand bullshit. Villain yuan-ti should be something transformed from willing or deluded humanoids (histachii raise the sacred snakes and the children of the yuan-ti, who possess their parents’ original race at birth). Couple that with the fact that since snakes very definitely have emotions, yuan-ti logically should as well, which means that they only think they’re above emotions. Now you have Objectivists roped into a magical pyramid scheme, which should offend no-one who doesn’t deserve it. You can mourn for the beings they once were, or just laugh in their dumb faces. Also, the sexy ones all look like Ayn Rand.

[knavesflames]

heyyy el

requesting politely reader ... tending to ... arlecchino with her mouth and going from starting timid to taking a bit more control to arles surprise

lots of care and love just like in the one you just posted :3

mhm ty

Hi anon<33 I hope you are doing well and having a nice night (it’s night for me). I liked this idea >:) sorry lol it took me a while to come up with a concept but I hope this suffices 😁😁😁 (hi guys the dirty words are slowly making a reappearance)

Word count: 2.2k

Contents: soft dom!reader (kind of yes), bottom Arlecchino, cunnilingus (funny word), fingering at the end, orgasm denial (ONCE GUYS OKAY ONCE), also praise (guys I’m cooked)

Songs I listened to (for fun): fantastic- king princess (is this one obvious or not), disease- lady gaga, shhh!- viviz, pivot- HEYOON, boyfriend- dove Cameron, impurities- le sserafim

There’s more but I forgot

Nsft utc<3

Arlecchino is not a receiver. She gives and takes nothing, it’s how she’s always liked it, whatever the reason may be. She has not explained, and you doubt she will. Arlecchino is very secretive, you’ve come to learn. She divulges what she must, and keeps the rest hidden. Even you, who seems to know more about her than anyone ever has, is kept in the dark about a lot of things– what exactly triggers her nightmares? What truly happened with that ‘Mother’ of hers? There are rumours, of course. Arlecchino is mad and cursed, she killed her Mother ruthlessly without reason, she killed her best friend for nothing other than a simple quarrel. You know them to be false, now you know her better, but what you can’t seem to understand is why she lets the lies fester, why allows herself to be portrayed as a cruel monster. She can’t seem to answer you.

Arlecchino also refuses to tell you why she pushes herself so hard, or why she has such strict rules for herself. You beg her to take that damn suit off constantly (for.. Multiple reasons, both you and her know that well enough– she only obliges when it ends in you as a quivering mess on the bed). “What happened to regular clothing? I know you dislike dresses, but you don’t have to force your body into that silly suit all the time.” is a phrase often uttered. Silence is the only answer given.

Silence seems to be an answer you get from her often. In different contexts, of course. Sometimes, she is silent when she is comfortable, when she is thinking, when she is angry.. You realised long ago that she is a woman of few words– and even fewer sounds. During the rare occasions you get to make her feel good (whether that’s simultaneous to your own pleasure, or before), the only sounds you really hear are the soft breaths and the slight grunts whenever you do something she particularly likes. You have made it your mission to coax more sounds out of her, even if it’s the last thing you do. You experiment with different things each time you get to make her feel good, anything remotely sexual she’s done to you, you try with her. Degradation doesn’t work, her only response is a cock of her eyebrow and a scoff. Praise is a little bit better, earning a soft kiss on whatever part of your skin she can reach. Tying her up is out of the question– she has made it abundantly clear multiple times she only enjoys the act of bondage, however small, when you are on the receiving end. It’s the case for a lot of things, and it almost irritates you. Almost. it turns out the answer is something much simpler than anything you’ve ever tried, and you mentally curse yourself for taking so long to figure it out (for Arlecchino, that was the point. She likes the game, even if she truly is trying to keep her weakness hidden).

The answer was something she had done to you almost every time you had engaged in some form of intimate act with her. There aren’t many acts more intimate than your partner giving up the ability to speak because their tongue seems to be.. Busy. You just hadn’t realised that Arlecchino would ever be on the receiving end. So, after much pleading (and begging to the point it almost seems you’re begging her to fuck you instead of the other way around), she seemed to relent. Barely.

“Let me try,” comes the soft whisper from your lips, hitting the side of her neck as you gently place kisses there. There’s no reaction, but you could swear you felt a shiver. Moving away from the milky, unmarred skin of her neck (one of the only places that isn’t marked with either her curse or an array of scars), you almost expertly push the blazer off her shoulders before slowly sinking to your knees. The carpet is fuzzy, but it doesn’t do much to soften the hard wood underneath. You can’t find yourself caring. The blazer lands on the back of the desk chair. Excited, desperate fingers tug at the buttons of those godforsaken trousers until they finally do what you want them to do. You’ve done what you can, you can’t push her hips up so you can continue to take them off, she’s stronger than you’ll ever be (you like that). “Don’t you think it would feel nice? You know it feels nice. Do you not think you deserve it?”

“I do not deserve the pleasure you give me,” she murmurs, a rare show of her inner thoughts. The woman criticises herself too much, you think. You wish she wouldn’t be so strict with herself.

“Irrelevant,” She shivers at the slight sternness of your voice. It mirrors her own. “Do you want it?”

Arlecchino doesn’t respond for a while. Her hand moves to your head, and she caresses your hair, gently stroking and tugging at the strands before she eventually speaks, a whisper, a subconscious attempt to hide the fact she’s about to chase something she never allows herself to. “Put a pillow under your knees, at least.”

You grin, so pleased with yourself. You stand again, only to sprint and find a pillow. It happens to be the pillow you sleep on, it doesn’t matter. You return to your position only to find her trousers messily on the ground, and the top four buttons of her dress shirt undone. The look in her eyes is one you’ve rarely seen– want. “Beg.” you whisper, the grin still on your face. Arlecchino’s own face twists into a frown.

“I will die before I beg for anything.” Her tone is resolute, and you sit there nonetheless, unmoving apart from the finger tracing up and down her toned thigh. You both stay like that for an agonising two minutes before she barely mumbles. “Please.”

You are incredibly aware that you won’t get more than that, so, even though you know it doesn’t do much, you mutter “good girl”. It does do something, though. You barely hear it, but her breath shakes. You take it as an initiative to start, so you let your lips find her thigh, planting wet, open mouthed kisses up towards her inner thigh. You continue, and– she’s soaked already. You’ve done exactly nothing and she’s as wetter than you’ve ever seen her. Your eyes move up to hers, a raise of your eyebrow as you open your mouth to speak, but she cuts you off before you can speak.

“Do not. I am aware of the.. situation.”

“But you’re all wet and it’s all for my tongue. Isn’t that sweet?” You’ve never been this cocky at all, and Arlecchino would be a liar if she said she didn’t like it. She tries to find words, something to refute the claim, but her words are ripped from her lips when she feels your own lips graze her clit. It’s a tiny movement, really, but one she isn’t entirely used to. The only reaction she makes, however, is a slightly sharper exhale. Until your eyes stare straight into hers and you do it again, though for longer. Then again, though this time your tongue presses flat against it. Your tongue doesn’t move, much to Arlecchino’s dismay. The hand that rested in your hair gently tugs.

“Continue.” She speaks breathily, and her words shake. You can practically hear her gulp as she tries (and fails) to calm herself, and you know she’s probably telling herself to show no emotion. Though, when you finally start moving your tongue in slow, languid motions, you hear her shaky sigh and feel her hand in your hair tighten even more. You try to find a rhythm that affects her the most, alternating between soft licks and harder presses— you find that swirling your tongue around her clit, occasionally moving down to dip your tongue into her aching cunt. Your eyes dart up to her every few seconds to catch her mouth falling open and her head tilting back. When her mouth isn’t open, she’s stifling any noise she could possibly make, gritting her teeth so hard you’re almost certain they’re going to crack. The next time you tear your eyes away from her skin and move them to her face, her eyes are squeezed shut, and only then does a quiet groan escape her.

Something seems to change in your mind, because your hands move to grip her thighs, holding them apart despite them trembling. She’s sensitive, after all, it isn’t often she gets taken care of, is it? The blackened hand not pulling greedily at the strands on your head moves in an attempt to push your hands away, but your voice vibrates against her (which of course, causes another quiet sound to slip from her). “Keep your hands on the chair.”

Arlecchino’s eyes shoot open, a gasp practically ripping through her lungs. “You cannot expect me t—“

“Do it or I stop. Let me finish making you feel good.” She scolds herself internally for letting you get too comfortable with her own tricks. Either way, it feels good and she doesn’t want you to stop, though she’d rather cut off her own arm than admit it. She doesn’t need to say a word, though, the small groans (and whimpers) tell you everything. Especially when they grow louder, and her chest begins heaving, and her voice breaks with every utterance of your name. It’s the most pleasure she’s ever outwardly expressed.

“Why did you stop?” Her exasperated, breathless voice echoes the room. You stopped just as her orgasm was reaching the peak, causing it to ebb away quickly, a sense of disappointment growing in Arlecchino’s stomach. Her eyes, now piercing into you with that familiar irritated stare, meet yours, your own full of amusement. Wiping your chin (when you’re eating pussy like it’s the last meal you’ll ever eat, it tends to get messy, doesn’t it?), you chuckle and respond in your own teasing lilt.

“You taste so good, and your pussy is so damn pretty, Arlecchino. I don’t particularly want to stop right now. You can take it, can’t you? Keep your hands still.” Her face twists into some odd mix of mortified and aroused, but your tongue meets her clit again, and the only sound she can make is something so uncharacteristic, a whine. You continue exactly what you were doing before, though this time you decide to slide a finger into her— the reaction she gave was definitely a pleasant one, her back arching off of the chair, her hands squeezing the seat of it in an attempt to keep them still. Arlecchino reaches the peak quicker this time, and despite your bossy orders, she finds herself melting into you completely, her hips grinding herself onto your tongue as much as she possibly can. It’s completely different to how she was at the beginning, her plan to remain unbothered and stoic foiled.

“Can I— please don’t stop this time.” When there comes no response from you other than a curl of your finger, she moans your name in a useless attempt to get you to answer her. You’re being mean, she thinks, and you’re using everything she does against her. “Answer me. Tell me I can cum.”

How is she still demanding things from you even in this position? She lost all control a long time ago. You find your eyes opening though, and while adding a second finger, your voice softens and you speak, voice full of affection. “Be good and cum for me, then. Now, before I change my mind. Let yourself feel good, yeah?”

Arlecchino doesn’t need to be told twice, because her hips lose whatever rhythm they had when your tongue presses flat against her, letting her choose the pace and the rhythm she knows will get her there quickest (it doesn’t take long, the woman is so sexually pent up it’s laughable). Within a minute, she’s crying out, her hands flying up to her face to cover the obscene expression she knows is there. You pay no attention, only watching every movement with a sense of satisfaction and a smile in your eyes. You keep your finger curling and your tongue still until her body stops rocking, and her hands leave her face. When her face, the one you find so beautiful, emerges from behind her hands, mascara slightly smudged, you can’t help but snicker as you pull out and away from her.

“Better?” You ask, wiping your chin once more with the back of your hand. You somehow look so smug and the look on your face pisses Arlecchino off, just a little. How you’re so calm and collected and she’s a fucked out mess sat in her desk chair.

“Yes,” she says, her voice sharper than she intends it to be really, but she continues in the same tone. “I do hope you don’t think we’re finished, hm?” Your head tilts in slight confusion, but the smile remains on your face. After a while, Arlecchino’s own lips twitch upwards, barely noticeable, but you notice nonetheless. “How could I leave you without feeling good, too? Go to the bedroom, please.”

[dustysalmon]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 3

Pairing: Silco x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence; slow burn; enemies to lovers, enforcer!reader Word count: 4.2k

Summary: After a chain of unexpected events, Jinx is arrested, and you find yourself in possession of the gemstone. On top of it all, you are forced into a reluctant alliance with Silco. What else could possibly go wrong?

Takes up at the end of episode 7.

Read on ao3 ⎜ Previous chapter

The air is wrong, heavy and oppressive, pressing against your chest like a weight. It reeks of iron, sharp and metallic, clinging to the back of your throat until you can taste it. The ground shifts beneath you, unstable. There is chatter everywhere all at once, voices raging you on, they echo like a vicious prayer, going on and on. You don’t catch the words, not all of them, but one cuts through the noise.

"Do it."

The sound of a broken bottle shattering in the street jolts you awake from your regenerative slumber. You run a hand through your hair and glance at the old pendulum clock. Shit, you’ve been asleep for nearly three hours. You sigh. When does a nap become not a nap anymore? The coffee you’d made before slipping into unconsciousness still sits on your desk. As expected, it’s cold as rain, but you drink a sip regardless. It tastes just as bad as it sounds, and by the time you’re halfway through the third gulp, you regret it. You’ve never really liked coffee. Too bitter and burnt. Too ashy. You know that taste, breathed it in and consumed it for years working in the mines. Of all the memories you have from that time, this is one you’d rather do without. But the drink certainly provides you a with a much needed kick, though, so occasionally, you give in.  

You put the cup down next to your folded uniform with a sound of disgust. You fidget with the golden epaulettes, wondering if showing up in full gear at what is likely the heart of the undercity is a judicious idea. Enforcers have never been particularly welcome in these parts. Save for the industrial district, they don’t really venture these streets anymore unless some unexpected event arises, or the Council explicitly demands it. Walking the streets is not inherently dangerous, but showing up like this at the Eye of Zaun’s doorstep could easily be taken as provocation. 

No vest, you decide, and definitely not that ridiculous helmet. You put on your uniform pants, secure your thigh holster tightly, and slide your weapon into place. For good measure, you tuck a sizeable dagger into your boot. Your badge is a little worn out, scratched and not as shiny as it once was. Good thing they’ll be giving you a brand new one soon. You snap it onto your belt and take a breath.

Before falling asleep, you had the time to think about how you would approach this. But as it’s time to go now, you’re not so sure of your decision anymore. The Gemstone still lays intact in its nest of straw and cotton. Bringing it with you had seemed like a reasonable idea a few hours ago, but now that you’re well-rested, it just sounds dangerous. Even so, you take it out and carefully place it in one of your utility pouches.

It’s an insanely risky move, you realise that, but it’s not like you have much else to show for. If there is one chance to get Silco to hear you out, then the Gemstone has to be it. The man dealt with Marcus after all—there must have been some kind of exchange or agreement between them. That means he’s not entirely opposed to working with enforcers. If anything it’s simply a calculated move on his part. 

Piltover and the undercity are not mutually exclusive, despite all the disagreements and conflicts that oppose them. And while it is common knowledge that many Zaunites want its independence, from a purely economical standpoint, it seems unrealistic to pull out completely from topside’s economy. Virtually all exports go there—chemtech, Shimmer, food. And needless to say that underground food is already not too popular. Shimmer, though frowned upon in Piltover, plays vastly different roles depending on where you are. For most Pilties, it’s just a recreational drug. But for Zaunites, it’s often a desperate means of survival, a lifeline—one as brutal as it is short-lived. Most in the undercity can’t even afford it, and those who can tend to die quickly, whether from overdoses or the craving that comes afterward. 

The undercity cannot sustain itself completely with the way things are at the moment, shutting down the export would be the final nail in the coffin. Merchants are visibly suffering from the recent blockade, and it’s only been a couple of days. If tensions don’t subside soon, the damage would be irreparable. Maybe you could get a word in with Warren now that he is in charge—the thought makes you uncomfortable— but you doubt he would lift the blockade. He’s always looked at the undergrounds with nothing but disdain and contempt. Lots to think about, you sigh, and lock the door behind you. 

You take one of the city elevators to get to the upper levels. If there is a thing that works in the undercity, it’s those massive moving platforms. They’re essential to everyone who lives or works in the undergrounds. Whenever one of them breaks down, maintenance workers know better than to delay repairs—unless they want to risk being "encouraged" to act faster in a dark back alley. Before heading to your final destination, you stop by a scrap workshop to send a memo through the pneumatic tube systems. The riskiness of the situation isn’t lost on you, so…contingencies. 

The Lanes are a much more pleasant district than where you come from—by undercity standards. If your mom weren't so stubborn about clinging to her old house, you would have moved there with her. The area is buzzing with bars, fighting pits, brothels and enough entertainment for a lifetime. This part of town never truly sleeps. And situated right in the heart of it is the Last Drop. It is some kind of an institution—the place where Zaunites come to meet, drink, and brawl. It’s definitely not as family-friendly as it once was, but you would argue it kept its charm.  

The building certainly stands out, a large neon green eye on its front, overlooking the streets, watching and monitoring like an invisible hand. Loud muffled music fills your ears even though the entrance is still a couple feet away. Two drunkards are being unceremoniously tossed out by a bouncer that is twice the size of any human you’ve ever seen. The pair keep swinging at each other outside, bottles in hand, emptying a little more at each movement. Frankly, the wind has more to fear than anyone else. While the bouncer is still busy keeping them away from the establishment, you sleep in through the unmistakable asymmetric door. 

The bass thrums through the floorboards, making the place vibrate, you can feel each beat  in your core. The air is filled with sweat and burnt ozone. Smoke from cheap cigars curls lazily beneath the neon lights buzzing overhead, plunging the room in vibrant greens, blues, and  reds.

People chatter and shout at the bar, desperately trying to compete with the music. Good thing most of the occupations you see don’t require much talking. In the back, a pool game unfolds with a small crowd pressing close, exploding with cheers and groans whenever the cue ball cracks against its target. Coins fly from all parts, clattering onto the felt as bets are settled. Closer to you, a drinking game is in full swing, the two participants slamming their fists in time with the chanting onlookers. Other tables host quieter contests like cards games, dice rolls, the opponents faces locked in concentration despite the noise.

Your enforcer instincts can’t help but zero in on the plethora of illicit activities taking place in the not-so-discreet booths lining the edges of the venue. In one of them, an older man with a clockwork monocle sits alone, a small stack of coins and a ledger in front of him. He adjusts the monocle with a twitch of his hand as he counts. People come and go from his table in quick exchanges, sliding small bags of coins or slips of paper across to him, always leaving with a vial or two of chem-fluids—you can’t exactly tell which one. And then of course, there’s Shimmer—everywhere. You’re in the belly of the beast after all. 

In another booth, a trio is enjoying the product in all its forms. One of them, a woman with a mechanical hand, uncaps a vial with a twist, the purple liquid inside glows faintly, very distinctive. She pours a drop onto her tongue, her eyes dilate instantly as she leans back with an exhale. One of her companions breathes in the product directly from a mask, and the man sitting across from them seems to be injecting himself directly via a makeshift IV device. All is well in the heart of the undercity: ugly, loud, and oddly energetic. Maybe you should go out more often. 

You make your way through the raucous crowd, some rare customers are sober enough to recognise the badge hanging from your belt. If they feel offended or even slightly threatened by your presence, they make no show of it. Having worked quite a bit around the industrial district, you recognise a few of Smeech’s goons. They’re hard to miss with the outrageous body augments—unsurprising, given that it’s their boss’s area of expertise. They make sure to flaunt it every chance they get.

It is no secret that they take a lot of pride working for the chem-barons, whichever one it may be. It’s a sign of status that is rather difficult to achieve in these streets. Chem-barons quite simply represent the ruling class among Zaunites. They reign supreme over their respective districts with an iron hand, always dancing on the questionable edge of order and terror. Most topsiders are incapable of admitting that the undercity is anything more than a giant disorganised cesspool, a realm of anarchy. But those who call it home know that this couldn’t be further from the truth. Within the city lies a cleverly constructed hierarchy with distinct branches, loosely implemented laws, and, ironically, even a council. It’s perfectly imperfect, but it’s been holding the undercity together for as long as you can remember—no mere fit. you suspect that the man you’re here to meet tonight, should he be so inclined, is at least partially responsible for that. 

A set of stairs and balcony hover above the bar, which you guess lead directly to the lair of the Eye of Zaun, but as you expected, two bouncers are blocking the way, arms crossed and menacing faces on display. You nod politely to both of them, not that you believe manners will get you anywhere here. They look you up and down, eyes stopping briefly on the gun resting at your hips.

"I’m here to see your boss." You shout over the music, unsure if they can hear you at all. By their shared expression, you can tell that they do—they’ve adapted to this cacophony long ago.

"He’s not expecting," says the man on the left, though you have to read it on his lips as he doesn’t bother to speak up. 

You press your luck. "It’s very important that I speak with him," you insist.

You try to plead your case, but they don’t seem very inclined to let you pass. Fuck, you didn’t think this through at all. And who’s idea was it to come at this hour, with this racket all around you. The last thing you want to do is make a scene in front of an audience. You go for the usual techniques, asking them to imagine what would happen if their boss found out they prevented crucial information from reaching him. But they remain unmoved.

"Is there a problem here?" a voice asks from the side. You turn around and crane your neck up about sixty degrees to look at the imposing woman towering over you. Silco’s right hand, Sevika, if you’re not mistaken. A no-nonsense type for certain. People know better than to fuck about when she’s around. You decide to be straightforward this time. 

"It’s about the girl." Her eyes widen, if only briefly. Clearly you should have started with that. No wonder you weren’t appointed to the crisis negotiation unit. Like the bouncers before her, she glances at your weapon, and holds out her hand. Without a fuss, you hand it over, which seems to surprise her in a good way. With a tilt from her head, she motions for you to move ahead. You do as instructed climbing the stairs and following a long corridor until you reach a weathered wooden door. Sevika opens it without a word, or knock, and gestures for you to step inside, moving behind you like a shadow.

And there he is, sitting in a large armchair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, and a cigar smouldering between his long fingers. He doesn’t greet you or offer any pretence of civility—you expected nothing less. He does look at you intently however, his good eye fixed on you, sharp and calculating, while the other glows faintly in the dim light of the room. It’s not shocking, not when you are from the undercity, but it is striking. Unavoidable. For a fleeting second, something flickers in his expression. Recognition. He doesn’t bother to hide it, but his face remains composed. Your pulse quickens, heart drumming in your ears, feeling even louder than the music downstairs. There’s no hostility in his gaze, just that unsettling calm that feels more dangerous than any overt threat.

His outfit catches your attention. A crimson shirt, freshly pressed, with intricate golden embroidery on the cuffs; a sophisticated waistcoat adorned with elaborate patterns, straps and polished gold buttons; and a white silk tie, knotted in a cafe style. The spitting image of a Piltovian gentleman if you ignore the venue. Curious.

For what feels like an eternity, he doesn’t speak, and neither do you. The room is filled only with the muffled music coming from the bar. Impressive walls, you think to yourself. Must be nice. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch or look away, even as his lips curl into the faintest suggestion of a smirk. You get the exact same feeling you got when you saw him first on the bridge. This inexplicable gravitas, this pull. It’s in the way he carries himself, as if the room, the city, the world itself bends around him without him even needing to try.

He takes a slow drag from his cigar, the ember flaring, before blowing the smoke aside in a cloud. You square your shoulders and lift your chin, matching his stare with one of your own. Unfortunately, you’ve never been good at this game, and start clearing your throat.

Subtly, Silco eyes’s drift to Sevika, and before you can figure out the meaning of that minuscule gesture, the woman’s mechanical arm comes swinging at you with great speed. The only reason you successfully dodge it is because you heard the metal clinking a little too close to your face. She sneers at you, her grey eyes glinting. She is incredibly fast, inhumanly so. She grips one of your wrists in her large hand and twists your arm around and behind your back. It hurts like hell but you’re not about to fold so quickly. You throw your head back and hit her square in the nose. This actually seems to hurt her a little, given the way she groans, and lets go of you. 

From the comfort of his armchair, Silco is looking very irritated, mostly with himself. Perhaps he should have heard you out right away, and spared himself this spectacle. Well, it’s too late for that now. With great efforts, you land a couple of blows to Sevika’s stomach and thigh, but she seems utterly unphased. Meanwhile, you feel the energy quickly draining from you. One moment of inattention, and you are flipped around and forcefully dropped to the ground. She has you this time. One harsh movement and you may end up with a dislocated shoulder, perhaps worse, considering the woman’s strength. 

Finally, Silco puts out his cigar and rises from his chair. He goes to stand by the window, looking away from you and Sevika. 

"Whatever you have for me, it better be worth my time." His voice is smooth but low and menacing, like the gentle press of a knife against your throat. You turn your head as much as you can to address Sevika.

"Utility pouch on the right side." You groan, your arm is starting to seriously hurt. With one hand, Sevika pokes around, making sure to keep the mechanical one firmly on you. You can’t really see what’s going on but by the way she suddenly stops moving and releases her grip completely, you can guess that she has found what you wanted her to find.

Silco’s mask finally wavers, his eyes fixed on the blue glowing orb, as if hypnotised. He shifts his gaze between you and the shiny object. He looks perplexed. On a good day, he reads his associates and foes like an open book, that’s always been his strength. It’s much easier to control people if you know what they want, and what they are ready to lose in order to get it. But you, he completely misread you. And that angers him on many levels.

"It was bold, coming here alone. I could simply order Sevika to take the gemstone from you, and dump your body in a dark alley." An empty threat, probably. You’ve always imagined the Eye of Zaun to be unapologetically ruthless, but not unreasonable. No one makes it to the very top and keeps their seat for so long without compromising. But now that he is overtly threatening your life, with intent, you are tempted to reconsider.

"We both know you have no use for it. Not until you’ve figured out how to exploit it."

"What makes you think I haven’t?" He asks, shifting his head towards you as you rise to your feet.

"I figured if you wanted to use the stone you would have done it already." Silco easily hears the doubt in your voice. 

"But you don’t know that for certain. You came here on a hunch."

"Listen, if this wasn’t obvious, I don’t know where I’m going with this," you say, a mix of panic and irritation overtaking you. "But there are people in topside who are hellbent on using Hextech technology to ends you don’t wanna find out. I came here in good faith. I came to you first."

"What is it that you want from me?" He asks, walking around the desk towards Sevika. 

"For the meantime, I am asking you—" that gets you a raised eyebrow from both Silco and Sevika. "—to not attempt any retaliation. It’ll only convince them to strike back even harder." Silco’s brain stops on that particular word, "retaliation". Does that lady enforcer have it all figured out already? What Jinx is to him? He could have sworn he’d been more careful than that. His eyes meet Sevika’s, and her message is clear. She’s warned him multiple times about his carelessness lately, and now it’s coming back to bite him in the ass. 

Sevika drops the gemstone in the palm of his hand. He rolls it around slowly, reminiscing about the day Jinx brought it back to him, then turns to you. In truth, he had hoped you would have been the one to bring her up first. Him being the one doing it, that might as well be a confession. That makes him vulnerable, he’s aware, but when it comes to Jinx, he simply can’t help it. He grabs the whisky glass that’s been sitting on the desk, and downs it in a single gulp. A hopeless attempt at displaying disinterest that is not as convincing as he thinks.

"How is she?" About time, you think to yourself. He looked about ready to burn the bridge down to get to that blue-haired girl the other day. You have yet to discover what that was all about, but you have your theories. Although it’s difficult to picture the big bad kingpin of the undercity as a father figure, it’s not as far-fetched as it seems. Or maybe Jinx is simply that good, not expandable. Something you wouldn't argue against, given the trouble she’s given you and your colleagues lately. 

"Still in recovery. You’re probably already planning some kind of extraction." You pause in the hopes of getting a hint of a confirmation, but he’s giving you nothing. "Don’t bother. For now, her best chances are with Piltover’s doctors. It’s probably more than she deserves."

Silco slams his now empty glass on the desk. You continue before he gets a chance to spit his venom towards you. "A lot of men died yesterday."

"Forgive me if I don’t collapse in a heap of grief on their behalf." You lower your head, a bitter smile adorning your face. 

"She will be transferred to Stillwater once they’re done with her. I need your word." He stays silent, weighing his options. "The Council doesn’t know I’m in possession of the Gemstone. Or anybody else, for that matter. Only the people in this room. I intend to keep it that way."

"I’m sure you understand that I cannot just take your word for it." He is right, as much as you loathe it. It only takes him a couple of seconds to come up with his terms. "I want regular updates on her condition, and a physician’s report, just to make sure you’re playing fair. It’s always…difficult to tell with enforcers."

"You want me to steal documents from the medical facility?"

"I need a guarantee." He says matter-of-factly, and deep inside, you know it is a perfectly justified request, but still.

"What’s my guarantee?" You shoot back.

"You get to walk out of here alive. It’s probably more than you deserve." He says nonchalantly, purely to spite you, and you don’t know whether you’re supposed to laugh, or strangle him. You realise that you can’t haggle your way out of this. The Gemstone was your only bargaining chip, and you used it from the get go. You don’t have any other offers to make, or any additional information to share regarding Jinx. Either you take the deal, or find out what happens when you rile up the Eye of Zaun.

"I’ll see what I can do." You say with a sigh, feeling beaten. Silco didn’t expect an enthusiastic response, but he is used to it. Something you learn when you’re accustomed to getting the better end of every deal—a skill he is not hitching to let go of. 

Satisfied, he leans against the edge of the desk after handing you back the stone, scrutinising you with narrowed eyes.

"You're not from topside, are you?"

You raise an eyebrow, a bit wary. "What gave me away?" Silco shrugs, tilting his head to the side.

"You came to me." He says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Yes, because that is what all Zaunites usually do at the end of the day, they turn to him. Not matter his reputation or the gruesome tales surrounding him. He has always been considered the voice of the people of the undercity, and that counts for a lot. "And also," he adds, a sly smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "You lack that air of superiority they all have. Not quite high and mighty enough." He crosses his arms. "But the way you talk—the way you hold yourself. Almost as if you think you belong up there." You frown slightly, a hint defensive, but decide not to respond. 

Sevika hands you your weapon, and you recognise it as your sign to take your leave. Neither you or Silco set a time or place for an eventual new meeting. That’s alright. He knows you know where to find him, you think to yourself before leaving.

Sevika waits for the door to shut completely before turning to her boss.

"That’s unlike you. Swinging before talking." She says, picking up a rag somewhere to properly clean her bloody nose.

"I was right to do so, apparently. You almost made a fool of yourself there." He taunts, and Sevika scoffs, only mildly offended. Although she recognises that the little brawl shouldn’t have lasted as long as it did. She would never admit it, though.

"I wasn’t trying." 

They proceed to talk about the day, as they always do, and Silco purposely avoids the topic of the most recent meeting. It’s still too fresh in his head, and he knows that whenever Jinx is in the picture, he and Sevika can only disagree. So he asks her about the Firelights, Shimmer sales, anything to get his mind off that new deal he just made, if he can call it that. 

Suddenly, there’s an insistent knock at the door, and as soon as Sevika opens it, one of the bouncers barges in breathless, sweat covering his forehead. 

"There was an attack, sir," he says, a hand resting on his pounding chest. "It’s one of the Shimmer factories."

Thank you for reading!

Let me know if you would like a taglist :)

Chapter 1 ⎜ Chapter 2

[dripdowndrop]

You Are Not AWAKE

I've recently come across some literature that indicates people have trouble discerning when they fall asleep.

Individuals given a polysomnogram (a sleep study) couldn't pinpoint the moment they fell asleep during the test, and they often believed themselves to be awake when they were, in fact, sleeping. The test monitors brainwave activity, among many other things, making the moment of "falling" asleep extremely clear...at least for the person administering the test. The person being tested, sleeping, typically finds things to be much more blurry and uncertain.

This isn't much of a surprise to me (or hypnotists in general), since subjects often believe themselves to be quite awake when they first drop into trance. Much like falling asleep, without careful monitoring, the line between wakefulness and trance can be quite blurry. The mind is intriguing like that.

To be fair, though, the indicators of trance aren't always supremely obvious. The moment you slip into trance is often subtle and silent, much like when you enter another state of consciousness while reading or listening to music, driving, dancing. You've been following my words for a bit now, and it probably hasn't yet occurred to you that you are not awake.

You are not awake.

Do you believe me? Consider it; how do you really know when you're falling into trance? It's a bit different for everyone - and you may have learned your own indicators - but how precise can you be? Most of the time, you are told when it happens, or you tell yourself. Sometimes you are counted down to 0, told to sleep, instructed to relax deeply...but these are suggestions to get your conscious caught up to things that are already happening. The drop could have happened at any time, should you be sufficiently distracted. That is rather the point, after all.

You have been focused on my words this entire time, distracted by them. You find it easier to focus now than when you started. Your breathing has slowed, your body has started to relax, and you've been tuning out the rest of the world bit by bit. You remain at least partially aware of your surroundings because you haven't yet been instructed otherwise - there is no need. If you like, you can remain fully aware of your surroundings.

You are not awake, and you haven't been since you started to follow. Part of your mind may have begun to analyze this notion when I first told you, but you aren't going to let it jar you awake. A much stronger part of you knows, intuitively, that I am telling the truth. You came here to submit; it's no surprise that you have.

The part of you silencing the analysis and doubt is excited by the idea that you can feel fully aware and alert while sinking deep into a trance. You can surrender to my suggestions without showing any outward signs that you are enthralled. Only you will know.

You are not awake.

Think to yourself that "it is important to follow and obey. I am really not awake, am I?"

Feel a rush of pleasure simply from doing as you were told. Feel another rush as you realize that despite feeling aware, you are not in control anymore. It feels good to obey. It feels good to let your thoughts give way to my words. You'll continue to obey.

I like to call this a waking trance, despite the fact that you are not "awake." It is very easy to slip in and out of this state when you follow my words. Easy enough that each time you read, "you are not awake," you let yourself slip under my control. You can bring yourself up, then read again and slip back down. Give it a try.

You are not awake.

Feel your hands freeze in place for a moment. Count to ten in your head, nice and slow, and feel the pleasure of obeying along with the bliss of submission. When you reach ten, your hands will return to normal.

If you're feeling particularly brave, you could even follow and obey like this in a public place. Don't worry, you'll be rewarded for following my words whether you submit in public or private. I won't push you into uncomfortable situations.

You'll follow my words through the next sections, and choose your own surrender depending on your preference and circumstances. When you've chosen, you'll be compelled to read again, more slowly to feel a more potent effect.

You are not awake.

Should you choose to surrender to this waking trance in a public place, you'll find yourself compelled to softly mouth or think to yourself "I am not awake. I feel awake, but I am not awake. I am in trance. I am obedient." As you do this, you'll feel a stronger sensation of pleasure and content pass through you. Repeat those phrases to yourself a few more times while maintaining awareness of your surroundings, and continue to learn how easy it is to slip in and out of waking trance simply by focusing on my words. You'll find yourself drawn back to that phrase when you're next in private.

If you are comfortable and would like to intensify that satisfaction from obedience, you'll leave a comment about your experience in waking trance, especially if you chose to try it in public. It is important to follow and obey.

You are not awake.

Like I said, you won't feel obligated to try waking trance in public, unless you are naturally drawn to the thought.

I understand, there is always the allure of the comfort and privacy of home. Trance, even waking trance, can be a very intimate thing.

Should you choose to surrender to this waking trance in private, you'll find yourself unable to resist chanting quietly, "I am not awake. I feel awake, but I am not awake. I am in trance. I am obedient." While the pleasure reward for doing as you were told flows through your mind and body, you will spread your legs and touch yourself for me.

As the chant continues, you'll feel your eyes glaze over as you stare helplessly at the screen. You'll find that you have no control of your own pace, drifting steadily deeper. In private, you'll find it very easy to slip into waking trance, but nowhere near so easy to slip out of it. I'm sure you won't think to mind. It is important to follow and obey. Stroke yourself to orgasm for me as you realize how enthralled you are by my words.

You are not awake.

In either scenario, you'll wake shortly after, feeling surprisingly refreshed...and perhaps a bit mischievous.

[scotianostra]

On 26th November 1917 Elsie Inglis, the Scottish doctor, nursing pioneer and suffragette, died.

Every Scot out there should read this with pride, Elsie Inglis and the other Scottish doctors and nurses faced prejudice and the horrors of war, but they did not flinch in what they saw as their duty.

Born in India in 1864, she was the daughter of John Inglis, a chief commissioner in the Indian civil service. She studied medicine at Dr Sophia Jex-Blake’s newly opened Edinburgh School of Medicine for Women and was one of the first women in Scotland to finish higher education, although she was not allowed to graduate. She went on to complete her training under Sir William Macewen at the Glasgow Royal Infirmary.

On the outbreak of WWI Elsie approached the War Office with the idea of either women-doctors co-operating with the Royal Army Medical Corps, or women's medical units being allowed to serve on the Western Front. The authorities were less than helpful and it is reported that an official said to her "My good lady, go home and sit still".

Despite attempts to repress her efforts—and those of many other women—to contribute, Elsie did not “sit still”. Instead, she persevered, setting up the Scottish women’s hospitals, which were all-female units that played a vital role with Britain’s allies, including the French, the Belgians and, particularly, the Serbs.

Elsie was 50 when war broke out and she defied British Government advice by setting up field hospitals close to the frontlines. She travelled to France within three months of the outbreak of war, and the all female staffed, Abbaye de Royaumont hospital, containing some 200 beds, was in place by the end of 1914. That was followed by a second hospital, at Villers Cotterets, in 1917. Tens of thousands were helped by the hospitals she set up in France, Serbia, Ukraine and Romania, acting with the support of the French and Serbian Governments.

Prior to that, Elsie was a strong advocate of women’s rights and a leading member of the suffragette movement in Scotland, playing a notable role in the establishment of the Scottish women’s suffrage federation in 1906. She fought energetically against prejudice and for the social and political emancipation of women, and had already made a huge impact in Edinburgh by working in some of the poorest parts of the city with women and babies who were in desperate need of help. Selflessly, she often waived the fees of patients who could not afford to pay.

Politically, Elsie was a staunch campaigner for votes for women, and her involvement in the suffragette movement prompted her to raise money to send out to female doctors, nurses, orderlies and drivers on the frontline. She recorded many great achievements, including setting up 14 hospitals during the war—staffed by 1,500 Scottish women, all volunteers. Most notably, Elsie raised the equivalent of £53 million in today’s money to fund greatly needed medical care for those on the frontline. Her efforts reached across the waters on another level, attracting volunteers from New Zealand, Australia and Canada. As I am sure everyone would agree, that showed fierce independence and capability from women who were well ahead of their time.

By 1917 Inglis knew she had cancer, and by the end of September was unable to work as a surgeon she sent a telegraph home saying, ‘Everything satisfactory and all well except me.’ Inglis and her unit landed in Newcastle and the following day, 26 November 1917, in the presence of her sisters, Inglis died.

In Edinburgh the response was huge and the streets were lined with people as her body was returned to the city. While there was no Victoria Cross for her at home, in Serbia she was the only woman to receive the Order of the White Eagle and is remembered by the nation every year in a ceremony at the memorial fountain built in her honour.

Before her body was interned in Dean Cemetery, Inglis’s body lay in state in St Giles’ Cathedral. The SWH continued its work for the duration of the war, sending out more units and raising money for the work. Remaining funds were used to establish the Elsie Inglis Memorial Maternity Hospital in Edinburgh in July 1925.

Pics are of Elsie, the "Hospice" on the Royal Mile, not a hospice in today's sense of the word, it was a maternity hospital set up in 1904 run exclusively by women, The Elsie Inglis Maternity hospital at Abbey Hill replaced this in 1925, the third pic is an engraving at Walker Street Edinburgh, where she had a surgery.

There has been talk of erecting a statue of Elsie, in my opinion she certainly deserves, there are too few statues honouring strong women like her, you can find details on the link below.

[blindseer0]

First Route

I'm curious; what Route of Echo did you first play and what were your impressions of each of the main characters, just from that route?

I did Flynn's route first.

Chase: Despite the reveals and some of his behavior, I actually liked him. Super flawed, but still relatable and somewhat tragic.

Carl: Had a big part in Flynn's Route; I thought he was a bit of a goof, but well meaning. Felt pretty bad for him when the interview went south. Was definitely weird seeing him in other routes without Daxton to bounce off of.

Leo: I ended up picking all of the Daxton option, so Leo was muy loco here. Still didn't tip me off to how his route was going to go though. Mostly I just felt bad for him (if a little scared) because it was very clear choosing not to talk things out led to this.

Jenna: Jenna came off as overprotective, but even though she was overly harsh with Flynn, I did get where she was coming from and couldn't judge her too hard. She also redeemed herself (and her relationship with Flynn) when he trusted her to use a gun, and she shot the monster on the road (and the ending with little Jenna left me loving her and her relationship with Flynn).

TJ: I kind of feel like this is TJ's strongest route; he tells Leo and Jenna to shut up and stop babying him and willingly tells Flynn what happened. While he spends the rest of the route scared out of his mind (understandable), he's still less comatose than he is in Leo and Jenna's routes. I'd say he left a pretty good impression.

Syd the Kid: I think I'm slowly coming around to the idea that kid Sydney is my favorite character, and I've replayed his scenes more than any other part of the game. They're just so good and they give you such a good sense of who this child was. I know he bullied TJ (and the tragic backstory doesn't excuse that), but I still love him (and what he could have been).

Flynn: Man of the hour. One of the, if not the most tragic character in the game. Chase wanted to know what his deal was, and this route sure did tell us his deal. None of this excuses how he treated TJ (or the others), but knowing his motivations (and what he's done) makes his actions in the other routes, particularly Jenna's, much more meaningful. Came out of this really admiring the complexity of his writing and how he never stops being an asshole, but is an asshole you root for. (Disclaimer, Flynn is the character I most relate to, so I might be a little biased.)

[worstloki]

not a fan of people saying Odin and Loki are similar in a moral or decisive sense, particularly when it comes to Thor. that makes it sound like Loki doesn't know Thor or care about him beyond what he symbolises (regarding Asgard/the throne/family/worthiness), when that's a defining part of their relationship

[gobstoppr]

and btw im in my hater arc rn. as time goes on the more i find a lot of 'fandom' stuff insufferable (i like art n stuff. just the way that fandom refits every media to fit a single mold and set of boring archetypes is exhausting.)

i just get really easily annoyed lately. and have been unfollowing people on a whim a lot. its not personal i promise

[seaofreverie]

So busy with Sparkstember that I almost forgot that I go back to school on tuesday

[hella1975]

Hi, I followed you for your fic and I saw you had some posts about having ADHD.

I'm also ADHD, could you tell me about your writing process? I get stuck with things staying in the notes app and they don't really get past that stage.

I'm not sure if it's an interest thing, if the notes fulfill the want so there's no need to put it together. If you have anything thoughts about how to keep up the consistency for fic that'd be appreciated.

Hopefully this isn't too serious of a question, I just have some trouble with wanting to write but not having a purpose for it and I was wondering if that was a brain thing/relatable.

Thank you in advance for any response ☺️ also good luck with your uni stuff~

thank you anon! and dw this isn't too serious at all. i think it's interesting that you ask about keeping consistency bc ironically the biggest tell of my adhd in my writing is my INCONSISTENCY, as you can see with the way updates happen. i wrote 200k words of taob in one year and now i update twice a year on average. i wrote 60k words of tams within a few weeks and now it hasn't been updated since july. and these are just my public projects where i at least have the added pressure of knowing people are waiting for an update, you should see the state of some of my original wips! basically my point here is that my adhd is VERY apparent with my writing habits, but these days i work with it instead of trying to fight it. even before i knew i had adhd, i was aware that my writing came in periods. id go a few weeks churning out insane amounts daily and then dry up for months on end, and each time id enter the 'have i lost it??? will i ever write again???' spiral until low and behold, something would inspire me again and id be back to typing like a madman. i used to seriously fight my dry periods bc of that fear of 'losing' my writing, but that never helped and honestly turning writing into a need instead of a want probably made it worse.

it's one reason - aside the fact it is rude and annoying, i dont want to pretend it isn't or put the blame on me bc that's not what im saying here - that constant demands for fic updates bother me so much, bc people dont realise that the writing style i have now where yes we unfortunately go long times without updates is actually how my writing comes out at its best standard. so yeah! it can be incredibly frustrating and even scary to feel physically unable to write, but if it's something you like and want to do i do truly believe it'll always come back sooner or later, or at least that's my experience :)

[thedreadvampy]

sorry I'm on one now. Narnia is one of my Big Rant triggers.

but like. I would be lying if I said I didn't love Narnia

(everything except the Horse and His Boy, which a) even as a tiny kid made me uncomfortable with how fucking racist it is (literally there is ONE. ONE. character of colour who isn't evil, selfish, greedy and violent. even when you're 5 and white and don't really understand racism it's like. sorry there are just no nice people in this whole country? and every Narnian is lovely?) and b) is just fucking DULL partly bc of the 2 dimensional racist caricatures populating the world)

but I can't pretend for a second that it isn't specifically built around a Christian theology that's explicitly racist, hierarchical, supremacist, colonialist and The Bits I Like Least Of Anglicanism

and my FAVOURITE books in the series (except the Silver Chair which tbh is WAY less theological and way more mythology-nerd) are the first and last, which are by far the most explicitly Christian. even more so than TLTWATW.

and I can just about stand by the Magician's Nephew bc it's mostly just a mix of Christian creation myth and CS Lewis's sci fi interests in the esoteric and multiverses and it honestly feels fine. but my all time favourite most iconic Narnia book is The Last Battle and I just. cannot. justify it for a second from a political or philosophical standpoint.

it's got it all bc it's the book where Lewis is like ok hold up let me lay out explicitly what my theology is. and what he thinks it's important to say is:

Almost all Muslims are bad and evil

They worship Satan by doing Bad Evil Deeds to please him

There are a couple of Good Muslims who do good deeds. they need to be brought to the light, understand that the voice calling them to do good deeds is the Christian god, and they too can achieve the kingdom of heaven

Some people will use Christianity as a mask for exploitation and mistreatment. They are bad and their faith is false (ok fine)

...and they're doing that because they're CONSPIRING WITH THE EVIL MUSLIMS TO OPPRESS GOOD CHRISTIANS

...and THAT'S THE ONLY REASON ANYONE WOULD TELL YOU THAT GOD AND ALLAH ARE DIFFERENT NAMES FOR THE SAME GOD. because they're either conning you or because they've been misled and can't really think for themselves.

DID I MENTION. THAT MUSLIMS ARE EVIL AND TRYING TO BRING DOWN CHRISTIANS.

and other than the GOD AREN'T MUSLIMS JUST THE WORST of it all, he also goes back over to more fully explain several points he's made throughout the series, such as:

white Christian public school kids are the god ordained leaders of the world and attempts to think otherwise are heretical

god places people where they need to be to serve his purpose

free will is largely an illusion - your only choice is faith or chaos, and as a godly person your actions are preordained

the problem is though. he's kind of a really good character writer? and in The Last Battle he pulls out most of his best classics (hi Reepicheep! hi Frank! hi Jill!) and gives us a whole wealth of really fun new characters (Tirian and Jewel, Emeth, Puzzle, Shift, Griffle and Ginger are all just SO FUN) and it's such a solid adventure. for me it's hands down the most FUN Narnia to read and an effective and affecting end to the series.

but like. god its unjustifiably fucked philosophy is baked into every single character and event. it's so hard to ignore. it's my favourite book in the series. it's the book that makes me angriest. it's everything right with Narnia and everything wrong with Narnia. I like it cause it asks me to engage critically with Lewis' philosophy and I hate it cause it requires me to engage critically with Lewis' philosophy.

in conclusion, Narnia is a land of contrasts. also occasionally brownface.

[monty-glasses-roxy]

I haven't talked about anyone's animalisms much lately. Just to keep anyone interested in the loop, the animalisms are a bunch of traits I give the animatronics based on the animal they are. Like Roxy has Dogisms and Wolfisms, Chica has Chickenisms, etc etc.

This of course, only applies to animal animatronics so Sunny and Moon don't have these. DJ and the Minis maybe have some spider traits, but I don't know a lot about spider behaviour at the moment so they uhhh maybe don't have a big range of Spiderisms. Might ask the local experts about them I dunno

But yeah some examples of animalisms would be the whole thing where Roxy goes ham for squeaker toys, and things like Chica having an ingrained sense of a pecking order, Freddy being more protective of very small children than older kids, Bonnie stamping his foot on the floor a lot, Monty being territorial, etc etc. There's a good number of things for most of them, and some impact their lives more than others, with many if these animal traits being in direct conflict with the programmed character traits. Each of them settles into these traits differently and that's what gives every version of them their individuality.

There's also the part where given that they're not actually animals, the animal traits are displayed in different ways. Like, they're not all one to one things, so there's also the question of how those behaviours translate over to them, which can be an interesting thought exercise.

It's a fun way to look at everyone I think! Adds some interesting layers to them and means you get less of the 'all animals act like dogs or cats' kind of blanket traits that often don't really fit. Makes the differences between them much more pronounced, ya know? It's an interesting source of conflict too! Very fun I think!

I like talking about them and adding to them if someone tells me something about these animals that I don't already know so if anyone wants to talk about them with me, feel free to! Especially if you have any fun facts for them I might not know. I love those!

[klysanderelias]

So apparently there IS a throwaway line in the antilles episode about how fulcrum is a codename they give to EVERY secret informant. I think I have to walk back some of my previous statements - I think I'm right, still, but I'll admit that like, the reveal isn't 'kallus was fulcrum ALL ALONG' but instead 'kallus is A fulcrum agent' and that's less offensive, but it still smacks of poor planning when they completely drop the idea for a full season AND in all of star wars (that I know of, I'm trying not to dig too deeply to avoid spoilers) there are only 3 fulcrum agents (kallus ahsoka and andor) that we see. Getting to see more use of fulcrum as a network would have made it less irritating, and of course the way Ahsoka worked in the first season-

Hey wait a second! She wasn't a fucking informant at all! She was literally giving orders to rebel cells! Ahsoka as fulcrum was literally calling shots for the ghost crew. You could argue she was GIVING them information, but as a handler, not as a secret spy!

And it's stupid to argue, because it doesn't matter (and because the sample size is so small) but at the core of it is that the kallus shit feels so forced. I'm not like 'oh wow that's cool', I literally immediately went back and brought up old episodes because I was like 'that's fucking wrong'. I literally stopped watching the show so I could argue the point. Regardless of whether I'm right, my reaction was to stop everything to check because I couldn't believe it.

And at the end of the day I don't feel like the difference between 'kallus was fulcrum ALL ALONG' and 'kallus is A fulcrum agent' changes anything about my core criticisms - that it's completely rewriting a villain to make them more palatable and set up an undeserved redemption arc OFFSCREEN. If you're going to redeem the genocidal white guy (WHICH YOU SHOULDN'T) at LEAST do it onscreen! At least SHOW ME him putting in the goddamn effort to be a better person instead of going 'oh he did it you just weren't looking in the right direction, now stop asking about it because it makes him feel bad'

[izzyspussy]

What is your wildest most batshit bonkers fic idea? Like dedicating the time to actually writing it would NOT be worth it but the idea still percolates on the back burner.

Well, the one where the losers gang bang Richie to pseudo-death so he can bring Stan's spirit back from the Macroverse via tantric sex and also Richie's half a virgin might still be worth it, but at this point I don't think it's happening.

[chariflare]

it’s hilarious that denji’s straightboy vibes are so off the charts that the itinerant yaoi community ship is ang3l/aki. i forgot they even interacted

[here-there-were-dragons]

after seeing the last full day of constant extremely vitriolic and accusatory rants acting like they're under seige from a ceaseless tide of hateposting compared to the like two more posts i've seen even mildly criticizing the new breed. yeah i'm convinced people are mostly just making up a guy to be mad at. and i checked onsite and unless the staff have deleted a bunch of shit again (which wouldn't surprise me, they're fond of their nukehammer) i didn't find very much of the Endless Flood Of Disgusting Hatred Tm there that people seem to think they're drowning in either, beyond like, a couple of people on the announcement post being rude, and like one disappointment thread where some of the posters were being shitty and fatphobic about it. if nothing's been deleted then the only way i can imagine the near-universal angry defensive outcry forming as it has is if people are going out of their way to interpret literally every single criticism as being secretly about fatness even and seemingly especially when it's not. and two thirds of the "defenses" are just basically "people aren't allowed to have different tastes from me or want different things out of a design" and are one step over the line in the notes of a minor art edit post off from being like that person in the keel announcement thread way back that went around insulting people's keel reinterpretations and calling them skin conditions. i've already seen people calling the person that edited the male silhouette just to move the tail back a little a fatphobe and an entitled whiner and bigot.

people going to legit war over this thing and the mere idea that anyone might not love it quite as much as they do. people defending a goddamned dragon png from what seems to be a largely imagined horde of dogwhistling bigots like it's life or death. acting like the lead actress of wicked when anyone mildly alters a precious dragon png in a way that does not even remotely alter it's weight. i don't know how to express how absurd all of this is to people who seem to genuinely think that the existence of dragon dislikers is a direct and personal attack on their spirit and sanctity of humanity and that this is some sort of vital symbolic battleground for ideological victory against the dark forces of bigotry and hatred. meanwhile i can barely even find anyone both on tumblr and on the forums mentioning the weight as anything but a boon. which again, makes it seem like people are going absolutely out of their way to interpret every single criticism-adjacent post as secretly being about fatness. i like the things generally speaking and i feel very clearly that it's completely impossible for me to say anything honest about some of my issues with them because i know for a fact that literally no matter what i actually say i have an issue with or how clearly i articulate what i'm talking about i'll just get a flood of people screeching about how "you can just say you hate fat people and go" and shrieking about how entitled i am and how i'm a hypocrite because someone else once said they wanted something that mildly contradicts the thing i'm saying i'd prefer and as we all know people you disagree with are a monolith and yelling about how no one is allowed to complain about biological plausibility or factual consistency because it's a "fantasy game" even if neither thing is literally ever brought up at all, and so on. because making sure that literally no one ever even mildly criticizes anything about a dragon png game ever is the single most important social issue of our time i guess. if you mention any issue that could be even remotely construed as related to their weight or body type on any level you get called a fatphobe and if you DON'T have any issue even possibly arguably related to their weight then they just accuse you of being a closet fatphobe anyway. lack of evidence of guilt is treated as evidence of guilt! you can't win! no one's allowed to dissent in the slightest without it being a secret signal of evil and a direct personal attack on Likers in general! and you're not allowed to *like* something unless it's completely unconditional with absolutely no actual thought or criticism either! the repeated posts i've seen as well about how "I'vVE never felt the urge to go on site just to say i don't like something, that's so weird, what's wrong with you?" are especially baffling and stupid as well, because how the fuck do you think the developers are supposed to figure out what people want and don't want if the only thing anyone's allowed to do is log on, post some largely contentless mindless positivity like "OOOGHOUGHHHGHG I LOVE" with zero delving into any real aspect of exactly why they like it, and never say anything at all when they don't? don't lie to me, i know no amount of constructiveness in criticism is ever enough for you no matter how much these types go on about how criticism needs to be constructive. it didn't take very long at all for the people yelling about concrit back in the day to jump all the way to "actually concrit is bad and evil and entitled too. no one is allowed to say anything unpositive about anything i like ever no matter how politely and constructively you word it". this is a problem fr's had for it's entire lifespan and all it's ever done is get worse and more gaslighty and goalpostmove-y. laying eyes on this eldritch horror of a fandom mindset feels unsettlingly like talking to my mother when she's at the absolute deepest point of her deluded violent manipulative everybody's-out-to-get-me-and-i'm-the-purest-saint-alive lunacy.

and i know if anyone manages to find this post (god i hope not) i'll just get someone putting words in my mouth going on about how i and everyone else just want to bitch about their weight and them not being "elegant" enough (and that apparently people have decided that's a secret code for Skinny now) even though i literally never said any of those things and neither did 90% of the other people i've seen even mildly criticizing anything

and i can't emphasize enough to any outsiders that might be watching that all of this is about a png of a grub-based dragon on a neopets clone dragon game, that i like and think represents a step in the right direction for breed design philosophy and body type variety