#retrod

[gluesenkampart]

Lighthouse illustration for a ttrpg book I'm working on.

[aaronmeterchanges]

Using a Retrode 2 to back up some of my Genesis carts. Happy to find out that my copy of NBA Jam is the slightly more coveted version with Charles Barkley!

[the-alfreton]

Cant stop thinking about them…

[marypsue]

⛅🌧

[from this meme]

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

You didn't specify a WIP, so how about...from the Steve/Nancy/Jonathan bodyswap AU, why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday:

Robin’s still looking suspiciously at him. Jonathan swallows, hard. “I’m – trying something new. With the hair.”

“Yeah?” Robin gives the top of his head a long, assessing look. “Try something else.”

🌧️Share something angsty from your WIP.

From later in the same WIP:

“Nance?”

“You don’t know how much I’ve thought about it,” Nancy starts, slowly, raising her face to study Jonathan’s window like the midday light pouring through it is absolutely fascinating. Steve wonders, a little, if that’s how Jonathan looks when he’s really absorbed in taking just the perfect photograph. If Nancy ever notices the way the sunlight at just the right angle casts Jonathan’s brown eyes in gold. He hopes so. Somebody should.

“The only reason Barb was there that night,” Nancy continues, relentlessly, “was because I asked her to come. The only reason she cut her hand was because I pushed her into doing that dumb drinking game. The only reason she stuck around after I told her to go home was – to keep me from doing anything stupid. Like I asked her to. She was my ride. She was my best friend. She wasn’t just going to leave me stranded, if it turned out you – if I changed my mind, or -”

She takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly and soundlessly before she turns to Steve. “You didn’t kill Barb.”

[kowaindar0u]

[marathedemonoverlord]

Yes.

Local is bored and has opinions

[macgyvertape]

Saw a post about shows adapting when cost/scheduling reasons prevent a guest actor from returning, and it made me think about Destiny narrative limitations especially since without insider info it seems some characters like Orisis (Oded Fehr) and Crow (Brandon O'Neill) are easier to get than others (like Nathan Fillion infamously so). Especially when considering things like voice actor line budget and how Episode Echoes seems to have less chatter than previous seasons during the seasonal activities.

So there’s a number of “how the sausage gets made” reasons aside from reissuing season of the Dawn weapons that Saint and Osiris got the Vanguard ally storyline, though I thought it was the weakest part because it retrod thematic ground that has been touched on before (the game wasn’t going to break up the one onscreen happy couple).

If money wasn’t a concern (nor voice actor scheduling) I think it would have been a really interesting season to see Ana Bray, Elsie Bray, and finally see Camrin Dumuzi (Ana’s girlfriend) onscreen replacing Osiris and Saint for the vanguard ally storyline. Things line up well enough that Lakshmi’s storyline wouldn’t have changed much. Elsie fits into both the traveled through multiple timelines/realities storyline as well as is an Exo who could be affected by The Conductor. Ana has experience with AI and it would be great to see her interact with Failsafe especially since she’s been at loose ends since Resputin was killed off. Also if the devs wanted to address alternate versions of yourself doing monstrous things there is that version of her that fell to Darkness in The Dark Future. Finally for the romantic parallels between Maya/Chioma and a happy couple that isn’t putting their wife through the Torment Nexus, it would have been great to see Camrin onscreen since there hasn’t been an onscreen f/f couple. (Feel like I need to clarify there have been onscreen sapphic characters but their partners are dead/missing/lore appearing only). Also bringing in Ana and Elsiewould have tied into Conductor!Maya’s end of season remarks about Clovis’ Bray’s hubris and her remarks about a new golden age really well. Last reason but not least I would have loved to see a reference back to the version of Maya from Clovis’ logbook that stopped his medical procedure to flay him alive with these words:

““Something like this happened to me. I was an explorer, once. One of… hundreds of myself. Then I fell into a… a trap, I think? And they drew me out of it with a hook, and turned me inside out to see how I worked, and then they made billions of me. All of us shouting at each other, shouting for Chioma, screaming for mother. They were looking for the right one. And when they found me, they killed all the others. I knew I was different, because the quiet made me happy. I was glad to be alone.””

Because what a difference “I was glad to be alone” is from the Conductor version of Maya Sundaresh.

[pokemoncenter]

I’ve heard some rumours and talks from big league Pokémon trainers about a thing sometimes found in wild Pokémon called “Poke-virus” or something? Apparently it makes Pokémon stronger. Feels kinda immoral if it’s true.

Pokerus is a known, though still not terribly well-studied, infectious disease which Pokemon can contract. It is transmitted through air, so a Trainer who has one Pokemon who caught the virus will likely find their entire team has been infected.

The virus is known to cause fever and shortness of breath. There are, oddly, no known cases of fatality to Pokerus, unless it exacerbates other major health issues. However, it is generally highly unpleasant, as it will cause difficulty in respiration, which makes exercise difficult.

There is a strange side effect of this, however, that a Pokemon who has it will find it easier to build muscle via training and exercise. It apparently affects myostatin production to increase skeletal musculature, or something to that effect.

Others have written much more in-depth discussions of the morality, so I will simply leave you to do your own research on that front rather than retrod old and worn arguments.

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

its really really interesting to see people even here go to bat for them bc while i do think that the medium has potential (and even i've used them) by and large the sub has been oversaturated with a very specific brand of them that is neither clever, nor witty, nor funny or even entertaining, but just poor taste. a lot of it can basically be boiled down to female characters fighting over the male mc, and within that theres a lot of misogyny, sexual assault, fetish material, flanderization and general unpleasantness

the mods made a collage of some of the worst and said collage is 240 mb large, thats how pervasive it is, i cant even try to scale it down to post it here

They’re banning sprite comics from r/grandorder

[forgottentristan]

whoops eithne + tristan <3

dslkjfaslkdjfkldjf <3333 (shhh but i love them already sldkjfkljsdf ;DDD)

Name: Ciarán Malconaire

Gender: Male

General Appearance: With bright-burning blue eyes arched over with prominent brows, a slender nose, high cheekbones, full lips, and a sharp jaw, Ciarán is a masterful reflection of both his parents. It is perhaps his eyes, inherited from his mother, which are most noticeable in his face: a clear, bright blue that can seem warm as the sky above or cool as winter seas.

Personality: Ciarán, like many children, is both a portrait of his parents -- and a reaction to them. Though deeply loyal and supportive, Ciarán also yearns to carve out a place for himself entirely his own but, born an eldest sibling, can't seem to quite escape what he feels he owes his family, retrodding many of the same questions both his parents have known. Clever and bookish, Ciarán often strikes one as the stoic, bookish type, at first glance -- which he is -- but getting to know him better uncovers a more jocular fellow buried underneath, albeit a rather arch and sardonic figure as well.

Special Talents: Raised as heir at his mother's knee, Ciarán knows Malconaire so well, it is as if it were a part of him and, indeed, he thinks sometimes that the great tree whispers to him, but he has rarely known of any male seers and often dismisses this as foolishness, as a result. (They both come from a long line of seers, so this just made sense to me...)

Who they like better: Eithne

Who they take after more: Tristan

Personal Head canon: Ciarán perhaps suffers from the lack of just the thing his parents fought to escape: I think he at times feels a bit rudderless with sm freedom open to him from such a young age and knowing that he'll have his parents' support, no matter what he chooses to do. Ironically, I think chosing to come in and pick up the reigns of Malconaire -- but, critically, also while knowing it is a choice of his own and not something thrust upon him -- allows him to finally come fully into himself and become the best version of himself.

Face Claim: Nicholas Hoult

[ormir]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯. // a flashback.

Featuring: Prince Orhan Gökhan. Location: The plains of Astoria, some twenty years ago. Trigger warnings: Gay yearning, suggestive themes.

"Back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now I was housed by your warmth Thus transformed By your grounding and giving And darkening scorn"

The canvas tarp breathed in deep, languid pulls with the warm night breeze. Light danced at the end of a candle, giving the illusion that the red and gold tarp walls moved organically, reactively, like the cavern of some great organ. A silent womb. Only the sound of cloth and buckles disrupted it. Ormir was lifted from quiet sleep by the kiss of the light against his eyelids. A silhouette passed, obscuring the source, just as he realized how cold and spacious the cot felt around him. The world was still and black beyond the tent’s walls. Awake already? The Raven-Feeder’s naked chest arched on a full breath, and the deep stretch cured all his ails. The bloom of pollen had set off like a bomb after weeks of steady rain on the Astorian plains, and the Iskarans were only just recovering. Adding wet vision and congestion to the mucky pit fight that had been made of the battlefield resulted in quite the miserable cocktail. A few days of sun and silence had been bliss.

Lately the prince had been distant, absorbed in thought. Ormir had tried not to internalize the neglect he felt, nor to be disused as the sounding board he’d offered to be. He tasted how his obstination had soured into regret as he slept. When their antlers locked in a difference of opinion, as was inevitable, the natural progression was for the two men to plant themselves equally firm in their beliefs, stoking their own flames higher and hotter in contest, until the passion morphed into the harmonious, desperate roll of bodies that brought a little death to the argument. It was unlikely that they’d touch the subject again until Orhan broached it in daylight.

Ormir watched the backlit shape of him now, as he laced his trousers by candlelight. The gold cast distinguished the weight of his body through the sheer drape of his tunic, defining how his muscled form moved like sculpture. In his trance, Ormir was torn between inking the image into memory and disrupting it, to call Orhan back to him and illustrate an apology. But the conviction in the Prince’s movements told him that he’d already made up his mind.

“They won’t be expecting you until dawn, you know.” Ormir perforated the silence, the rasp of sleep and sex grating in his voice. Some water would soothe it, but he let it be.

“Yes.” Orhan’s silhouette responded without a hitch. He must have sensed his company waking, and must have already braced for questioning.

“And you’re aware that they still fully intend on undermining your plans?” The soldier retrod the ground they’d pulverized in argument the night before.

“Yes, I know.” Defeat rang in the noble’s words. Orhan sat and gathered his long, dark hair with a comb of his hands to pin it in a high knot. The practiced motion was fluid, and called attention to the thread of silver that was coming in at his temples.

The younger man groaned softly in protest, lifting onto his elbows so that the lithe lines of his body were visible. His eyes strained to find focus in the dim light. “So you’re comfortable with losing sleep to them?”

“I need my rationale to be perfect,” Orhan said matter-of-factly, as he was arranging parchments in order on the table’s surface. “If only so that I can put it to rest gracefully.”

Or you could just have them choke on it, Ormir bottled the thought, once again annoyed by the grace his counterpart commanded. He rose slowly, found his long, moth-eaten tunic among the scattered clothes and slipped it on. He poured water from Orhan’s carafe and drank it. Old sweat and grime was dried on his skin, and Ormir yearned for a bath. There was a standing offer for one, if he chose. The luxuries of the Prince’s life had largely been extended to him. Something always stopped him short of opting in, though. Unworthiness? Guilt? Jealousy? Or would it just make what they had together too real? It probably wouldn’t help to unearth it. Against his intentions, Ormir found that he’d gravitated to where Orhan sat, massaging the meat of his shoulder while the Prince laced his boots.

This life, his reputation, his choice of companion, would have been bile-inducing to the back-alley tradesman he was a year ago. He’d come from nothing, he’d rescued himself from the feral Skjaldwoods, bought his own blades for vanity’s sake and was catalyzed into a butcher and the prince’s personal lap dog. Perhaps he hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

“You should come.” Orhan spoke suddenly, in the cadence of an epiphany. 

Ormir’s expression tightened. “I’m sorry?” The first instinct was to laugh, because he must’ve misheard.

“You should come, Ormir.” The Prince repeated. The words commanded from the diaphragm, in the confident, regal timbre Orhan used in reserve. The Raven-Feeder would be flustered by it if he hadn’t been so shocked. “Listen in, watch the moves in play. Deliver your stratagem straight from your mouth – you know I always botch the details anyway.” The prince’s voice softened, as did his eyes. “Sit at the table, beside me.” Squared, calloused fingertips brushed over the delicate skin of Ormir’s wrist, hot as a brand. “Or just stand in the corner as a fly on the wall if that’s too demanding for you.”

Breath was slippery and hard to hold in constant rhythm. The weight of expectancy was suddenly crushing with Orhan’s deep, trusting gaze trained on him, and Ormir was squirming to find a way out of it. 

“You’re not thinking clearly,” He stammered, convincing his hand to pull from the caress. The Prince’s added diversions would not work on him, as he’d recently allowed them to. “I’m a conscript, I’m no strategist.”

“I am, and you are.”

“I can’t sit on your council.” He insisted. The power was attractive, of course it was. Rumors and embellished fantasies of the blademaster and The Raven-Feeder were already making the rounds through Iskaran campfires, and a wealth of penetrating glances lanced in him each time he’d leave the Prince’s tent. To feel the condensed heat of judgment within the closed circle of Orhan’s advisory, though, would be too much to bear.

“Why not? You’d be welcomed.”

“No, I’d be pitied.” Ormir’s voice raised and shook on the edge. “I have no more merit to weigh my opinions into Iskalrdik’s future than any other mongrel in this camp who can smell a storm approaching.”

A moment passed without words, just the steady exchange of wounded stares. Ormir pulled out of it first, casting his eyes into unfocused space above the Prince’s shoulder. He knew looking down meant seeing the crimson drip of Orhan’s trust coating his hands, wrung out by his cowardice.

“Do you think so little of me?” Orhan asked, decoding the subtle shifts in Ormir’s face. The Raven-Feeder was naked before him, a vivisected spread of wounds and resentments exposed to the open air. “I extend the offer as your liege, and a solid judge of talent where I see it. I would not make the mistake of inviting any ponce who warms by bed to pillow-talk about Iskaldrik’s war strategy, so you can rid yourself of that delusion. You would do good here.”

When he was met with silence, Orhan stood and gathered his materials from the table. Anger didn’t announce itself in his manner. That was saved for the cathartic surge of battle, or for their rituals at night. Ormir rode the wave of discomfort until Orhan closed the distance and kissed him, softly, in parting. The gesture burned with sincerity, and it took everything in Ormir not to be consumed by love for him. Even then, The Raven-Feeder knew he’d feel the man’s ghost for the rest of his life.

“Think about it.” The words breathed into his mouth. Then the warmth was gone, and the canvas door flapped shut and left him alone.

[ellorypurebloodculture]

Summary: Miss Minerva McGonagall will not behave as her mother did. She will not seek to deceive the person she loves, especially not someone as noble-hearted as Master Orion Black.

[tarsusingkirk]

SO WHAT if im retrodding the did u hurt urself scene s o w h a t .

this is not that but in this paragraph it is

[lebuc]

enlighted ( hope is borne )

* by the night of a thousand stars among those yet unseen

is cradled a moon - reflecting, revealing the sins of the day

in the fires of fury & pride down treaded paths, retrod without retreat.

on the smoke from embers hope is borne on nocturnal breezes.

stoked by eternia, we attend to ticks & tocks,

modern clocks trained through tech & observation;

past disbelief & bathos we bellow into the ether, contending

against angst & error, revelling in conjunctions as these;

that we understand how much sin is in the eye of the beholder

& he/she who claims to be without such has not eyes either, to see any light -

neither in the post-dusk illumined mist, nor by dawn's early. so - for all who seek to condemn, first - shine your searchlights within & hope to find. * 4/23 - lebuc - enlighted ( hope is borne )

[ettawritesnstudies]

Happy Worldbuilding Wednesday! What's something in one of your stories that falls into a category people don't immediately expect (like a tomato being technically a fruit)?

At some point I want to write a story in the Runaways universe that's a backstory for Peter Pan (similar to Peter and the Starcatchers, which was a series I loved as a child, specifically with the Umbra character) where the Lost Boys end up being a gaggle of fae/human changeling children who escape from the Unseelie but can't make it to Seelie/Don't like it in Seelie because it's Too Nice, and so they settle somewhere in the unclaimed Nevver of faerieland and make their home there.

The trick here is that Runaways has fairytale inspired worldbuilding but it's an original story with original characters. Writing about the Lost Children of Neverland would be an adaptation of a story, and more than that, in the original story, Peter Pan isn't even the protagonist, Wendy Darling is, and I do genuinely love her and her siblings, but she's already so similar to Hannah in terms of being oldest daughter of 3, whimsical storyteller with a "we need to go home" no nonsense attitude that I would be retrodding the same ground and it would be kind of boring.

I would have to rework it to be an original story with an original OC who's a Lost Kid and a sidekick to Peter dealing with all of Peter's antics, and idk I've been workshopping this as a novella for a while but I still don't have a plot because Hook is overdone and I love Umbra as a villian but I don't want to plagiarize the shadow monster or the disney fairies despite the fact that they were a formative part of my childhood.