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jafreitag · 3 years ago

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Grateful Dead Monthly: Gaelic Park – New York, NY 8/26/71

Fifty years ago today, on Thursday, August 26, 1971, the Grateful Dead played a concert at Gaelic Park in New York City.

Gaelic Park is located at West 240th Street and Broadway, five miles north and east of Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. In 1926, the Gaelic Athletic Association purchased it to host the Gaelic Games. What are Gaelic Games? I’m a sliver Irish (just learned that a few years ago from a cousin who did some DNA stuff), but I didn’t know about such games until I asked the Google machine. Here you go, from the Wiki:

“Gaelic games (Irish: Cluichí Gaelacha) are sports played in Ireland under the auspices of the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA). They include Gaelic football, hurling, Gaelic handball��and rounders. Women’s versions of hurling and football are also played: camogie, organised by the Camogie Association of Ireland, and ladies’ Gaelic football, organised by the Ladies’ Gaelic Football Association. While women’s versions are not organised by the GAA (with the exception of handball, where men’s and women’s handball competitions are both organised by the GAA Handball organisation), they are closely associated with it.”

Some to unpack there. What’s Gaelic football? It’s basically rugby. (The rules are probably way different, but this is a music blog, so don’t judge.) And hurling? Rugby with a small ball and sticks that look like sporty pizza paddles. (Again, don’t judge.) Gaelic handball? Racquetball, except you use your hands and you’re outside, not in some bougie health club from the ’80s. Finally, rounders? It’s actually alot like baseball. Pretty cool.

Why were the Dead there? A 9/2/71 piece in the Village Voice by Carman Moore, now archived on the Grateful Dead Sources blog, said that Gotham promoter Howard Stein, a Bill Graham competitor who booked the Dead to play at the Cap Theater in Port Chester, NY and the Academy of Music in NYC, had turned “the drab little Riverdale soccer field … into a summer rock mini-festival.” (Check out the poster above.) Moore’s writing has an early-70s sizzle, and he refers to his colleague, now-legendary rock scribe Robert Christgau. Here’s an excerpt:

“Last week’s Grateful Dead concert up at Gaelic Park was a usual Dead session, meaning that the band-to-fan-to-band electro-chemical process for which rock music is famed was on like high mass at Easter. Although I think I know most of the time what they are doing musically (Christgau will like this notion); I don’t quite understand them electro-chemically. Like the New York Knicks of two seasons ago, they can do excellent things together though they are not a group of deathless superstars. Garcia gets his songs across, but he can’t sing, and Bob Weir’s voice rises to about average…maybe better when he gets to screaming and the music sweeps him along. I still find it difficult to recognize the Dead songs that aren’t “Truckin'” or “St. Stephen” one from the other. I am not one of their fans, but seem to be one of their admirers. Their music speaks in a special language to their live listeners, and that language has the vocabulary of everybody else, but a convoluted syntax all its own. The note sequences are not completely dependent upon musical factors but are also dictated by how involved the band feels and also upon what kind of heat the audience is giving off. I’m trying to get to some essences of this thing.

The drama of a Dead concert revolves around the fact that wherever the band plays they know that a certain number (several tons) of their partisans will be there and that their crowd knows the Dead potential to excite them, but they also know that the Dead may not get into gear until the crowd begins to apply some heat, and so forth. Both parties also know that the concert will be long enough and informal enough for anything to happen on either side of the footlights, and so audiences improvise (smoke, go to the hot dog stand, kiss and snuggle, cheer, dance, listen like star-struck fools) just like their musician friends on stage (who play light and funny for awhile, retire backstage awhile, stand around, or get lost in a piece and turn on the heavy jets). Like good lovers, the Grateful Dead know the secrets of good foreplay, taking your time, surprising the partner for awhile, and then just reacting for a spell.”

The timing of the show seems odd. The band was on the East Coast in July, but began August back in Cali – LA, SD, Berkeley – before a three-night run at Chicago’s historic Auditorium Theater. Then they trekked back to NYC. Our resident Deaditor ECM explains that aspect: “This show was supposed to be played the day before the Yale Bowl concert on July 30, but some issues with the equipment trucks and/or weather prevented it from happening from the scheduled date. There are a few stories on the web about people who didn’t get the message (no twitter back then!) and dropped some acid only to show up to an empty stadium. Haha!”

Moore said that the show reminded him of “a high school stadium I used to know – low stands, unfulfilled infield grass, mud holes here and there, beer sold at one end in some quantity.” He continued:

“The formal shape of the concert was a general crescendo, light at the beginning and heavy-groovy at the end – not a shooting-star, call-the-law finale, just a heightened physical-emotional climate…the goods delivered as promised…sort of like good preaching in a church known to be a happy place. I did not enjoy their country-westernish opening tunes; maybe they didn’t either, because the pieces were awfully short. But by the three-quarter mark they had involved themselves, the crowd, and me too.

First they got the rhythm engaged and finally, courtesy of Jerry Garcia’s lead and interplays with Lesh and Weir, they went into the soloing and jamming which are the real magic music territory of this band. Much is made of the Dead soloists, but it became clear to me by last Thursday that bassist Phil Lesh plus those two drummers create the atmosphere that makes the Dead thing possible. The drummers were exceptionally understated, but Lesh kept bopping and thrumming away, heavily at all times, until his patterns were consistently getting the other players off. In the middle of “St. Stephen” there was a special coming together: Lesh had found a nice ambiguous but compelling set of licks; Garcia eased into a solo; Weir strummed a cross-time lick over all of it; it built; it quieted; Garcia started to play strange classical kind of lines; the drums dropped out; the audience got quiet; nothing at all could be predicted for a minute or so; then Lesh began to grope his way out with two chords and rhythms which began to regularize; audience began to jump and then to clap; guitars began to straighten out; the band came home to the cheers of the fans. Good music-making. The listener goes home without a little tune to whistle, but he hears music. As if they were finishing off some personal solos based over the last riffs heard, the fans went out of Gaelic Park without a thousand encores and without a lot of fuss on the streets outside.

It’s all very interesting, surprising, and I guess mystifying as before. All I know is that the Dead, or their fans, or the combination of both lure you into planning to return when they’re all assembled and back in town again.”

Apparently, there was some grief about bootlegs at this show. The GD Sources blog has a post that archives a 10/6/71 piece by the excellently-handled Basho Katzenjammer (Basho, the 17th Century Japanese haiku master; Katzenjammer, the German word for hangover) that gripes about an army of 200# “muscle freaks” at the direction of tour manager Sam Cutler liberating a handful of tapes from 100# weakling Johnny Lee. It’s a truly fun read. An excerpt:

“The biggest piece of shit spewing from Cutler’s mouth is about the reasons the Dead have for being so pissed off: they don’t like the quality (remember Garcia’s line in “I Got No Chance of Losin”? He says, “I’m only in it for the gold.” Yeah, music has a way of being more honest than the artist intends it to be at times…) The “quality”? Anyone who has bought a bootleg recently will know and agree that the bootleg stereo album called “Grateful Dead” is one of the best underground products yet. The tape was taken from a concert the group did at Winterland, on the coast a few months back. Yeah, Garcia fucks up a bit on “Casey Jones,” and Pigpen’s ego may have been deflated a bit by his voice coming over poorly on “Good Loving” but that was a concert. You do a concert and you stand by your performance, good or bad. That’s show business.

This effete artistic bullshit doesn’t matter anyway … When you’re out to get all the money you can out of your gigs, like the Dead seem to be (like all the groups seem to be) you might be accused of being a bit piggish; when you use strong-arm shit to insure that you get every last penny that you deserve — by making Amerikan standards — you are a Pig. Jerry Garcia, is that you?

Nobody buys that anti-bootleg shit about the artistic integrity of the artist in saying what goes out. One, you stand by your performance; two, even if you don’t want to, Jerry, somewhat, and say “all your private property is fair game for your brothers (especially when they sell records of concerts that don’t compete with coming releases) and your brother (who’s gonna continue to dig you as we live off your comets we’re gonna keep ripping you off because it is possible. As simple as that.” If you and Cutler and Stein continue your shit, though, we’ll just have to sing the song the same old way, you guys being put in the position of being the same old reactionary establishment that we’re all ripping off. It’s all around. You break your back playing gigs for ten years and suddenly success is staring you in the face. Bread: lots and lots of bread. You turn your back on your poor, ripping ’em off roots and start to tighten up. You’re in the biggest rip-off industry around, but no one cares as long as they’re having fun.

Money. That’s the whole story, isn’t it? If these were other times, in another land under a different set of rules maybe you could justifiably complain about the people who want to give your recorded performances out free because you didn’t screen them and pick out the sections you didn’t like and do them over for the cat, ’cause no one charges for their music, and because the means of production belong to the people, and they can turn out all the good sounds they can, and you have a natural right to screen all releases. But we’re here. Now. You guys are making millions — or soon will be. Money is power, especially as the concept of money is crumbling nation-wide and power freaks like Stein are cornering the market on it. The channels that the green-power the Dead bring in travel aren’t the healthiest for the generations of revolution to come. Stein is one of these hopeful images of a freak with a chance to change things positively gone sour, who uses all his power to consolidate his power; who’ll go to any extremes to insure the natural expansion of that power. Fuck him. Fuck you.”

Speak, Basho! Quaint that the beef about bootlegs back then was sound quality, rather than copyright. Stuff got figured out at some point, I think. Like when Bobby shut down the LMA, lmao.

Ed featured part of this show in the 2016 edition of his epcot 31 Days of Dead project. Here are his listening notes, which are typically spot-on (and better than than the not-quite-on-the-bus commentary from Mr. Moore):

“Less than three weeks after Pigpen’s definitive performance of Hard To Handle at the Hollywood Palladium (8/6/71), the Grateful Dead play the final date of their summer tour in 1971 at Gaelic Park in the Bronx. It will be Pig’s last show until December and the last time the band will ever perform in their original quintet configuration of Jerry, Phil, Pig, Billy and Bobby. By September, Keith will be rehearsing with the band to assume a full-time role on the keys. Perhaps anticipating his absence, Pigpen leads the band through 6 of his songs including the rarely-played Empty Pages and the last Hard To Handle. It is also one of the last performances of Saint Stephen, until the band revived it in 1976 with a major facelift, never to be played the same way again. When you consider these historical milestones along with the departure of Mickey Hart and the closings of the legendary Fillmore East and West earlier in the year it makes you realize that this concert carried a little more weight than anyone could have ever foreseen at the time. It truly was the end of a chapter in the life of the Grateful Dead. As you listen to each song you can’t help but feel a certain degree of nostalgia.

For me, the hidden gem of the show is the outstanding version of Uncle Johns Band. Jerry’s first guitar solo is an absolute joy to hear. His notes sing with irresistible melody and happy sunshine which perfectly capture the nostalgia of those carefree early years. If you listen closely you can hear Pigpen playing the wood claves.”

Speaking of Pig, this show features the second and final performance of Empty Pages. The NYS Music blog, which has a nice write-up of this show, describes it as a McKernan original that “pairs his traditional crooning style with a slow blues jam that’s nicely peppered with fiery guitar licks from Garcia. It’s a true rarity and a shame that the band wouldn’t be able to further develop this one.”

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I feel like this was a try-hard post. It might be tl;dr, idk. Here’s the true goodness…

Transport to the Charlie Miller remaster of the soundboard recording HERE.

More soon.

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loyally-unfaithful · 4 years ago

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—; but “sentimental boy” is my nom de plume

word count: 1916

pairing: connor/gn!reader

genre: slight fluff; hurt no comfort

summary: it has been a year after the android revolution. humans and android alike settled down, an olive branch was offered as a sign of reconciliation. with newfound peace came along newfound love, and many open roads to choose from. this was no different for the rk800—connor. surprisingly or unsurprisingly, he decided to continue working at the dpd, this time as a bonafide detective. but he has also accepted the thrilling uncertainty of life that deviancy has brought; the same strings that brought his lover in his life.the same ones he hated and cursed, the same fates who ripped it all away.

a/n: everytime i convince myself i came out of my dbh hyperfixation i just look at connor and i become lovesick again.

gosh i know i should be finishing my other fic or work on the prologue script for my vn, but,,,,,,, i just had a sudden hankering for connor angst,,,,

written during a sleep deprivation induced moment of epiphany,,,,, (purple prose cuz im extra af uwu)

I’ve never written angst before so i’d love to hear your thoughts on it

maybe if you asked him one year ago whether he’d consider returning someone’s feelings, romantic feelings, he’d reply to you with a placid smile and a polite « i’m sorry, i wasn’t programmed to reciprocate romantic interest. ». he remembered that he’d sneer at them internally. now thinking about it, long before he questioned his obedience towards her, he already showed signs of deviancy.

you did what you were designed to do.

memories from his past would still torment him erratically, doubts would resurface on particularly dark days. but you were the light that cut through that haze. this wasn’t a “fake deviancy”. it couldn’t have been. not when he is holding your body so close to his, warmth radiating off of each other, two heartbeats—similar, but different—thrumming together. all the softly whispered and adoringly announced « i love you »’s; all the quick and coveted pecks and all the feverish and passionate kisses. no, he was alive, he was sure of it—alive and absolutely enamoured by you. all semblance of doubt ebbed away when you entered his life.

whenever he’s around you, he feels more alive: you make him feel everything, all the little precious things. tenderness and adoration when he shares tranquil mornings with you. he feels more alive when he’s with you, all the little habits and routines too endearing: the sweet post-it notes scattered over your shared flat; scribbled upon it are encouraging words or sweet nothings. conflicting work schedules meant that moments spent together were scarce, but that made them even more valuable and coveted. captivation, was another emotion that he felt around you. your mannerism, your dreams and interests, your physical attributes and quality of voice. logically speaking, you were just another human, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. you’d live and then one day, you’d die. as if you never really existed. but he wasn’t being logical. how could he be? when you were right there in front of him? you made him irrational, and he found that new aspect in life thrilling. confusing at first, but exciting. he was eternally grateful that you let him experience all these beautiful emotions with you. he was grateful that you allowed him in your short journey that you called life.

he was happy, absolutely content, with his shared life with you. you were both in perfect places in your respective lives: you both had a stable job, loving family backing you up, and a fulfilling love life. what seemed to be a mismatched couple at first turned to be 2 pieces of the same puzzle finally finding their place. life for the both of you couldn’t be better.

but along with the many exquisite moment that your romantic endeavours brought you, the android didn’t only taste the sweet delicacies of life; no matter how idyllic a moment may be, there were times when he had to taste the astringent and sour desserts life offered.

anger. that was an emotion that he felt. but that’s not accurate, no… it was frustration and shock and betrayal, all the unsavoury feelings in the world. perhaps it was due to his inexperience, maybe his lack of exposure to these negative sentiments, that caused him to snap the way he did. to hurt you the way he did. but it happened and there was no turning back the clock.

no matter how much he begged and cried for it.

he was proud that you got the job offer in canada, he really was. and he, like any other caring boyfriend would, offered to accompany you there, an offer which you gladly accepted. that was the plan. but plans were difficult to follow. crime waits for no man, working for the law meant that connor must always be available for duty. no excuses, he was an android. but connor wasn’t just a simple android detective, no, he had a much more important role: he was the link, the messenger, between jericho and the police force. he was the crucial communication between the two forces. so when jericho contacted him about threats of anti-android attacks, he had to make an appearance at their base. the meeting coincided with the day you were meant to travel to canada. it was a simple trip really. it only took a few hours by train, stay in canada for 2 days (it was the weekend), and then return back to detroit, probably arriving in the late afternoons to their home.

but you were looking forwards to traveling with your wonderful partner after « [we] spent so much time apart ». the day he told you the urgent change of plans, connor was tired, overwhelmed. you were frustrated and expectant. a fight was bound to have erupted. accusatory statements, along the lines of: « you don’t actually care about me! it’s all about work and work and work! » and « i can’t believe how selfish you’re being right now! » in between shouting and yelling and frustration and anger and contempt–

you both went to bed exhausted but spiteful, still not forgiving each other. in hindsight, he felt so utterly pathetic, so unbelievably childish, for being that cruel, and uncaring. he didn’t want to be like him again. so many glares and insults were thrown at each other, tears threatened to spill, LED flashed and shone a true red, doors were slammed. he felt awful, plain and simple. you both lied in the same bed, under the same cover. so close yet so excruciatingly far apart. back facing the other’s, no one said a word.

you woke up before him. bitter and unhappy. no morning kisses, no whispered « i love you » to wake your other half. you wordlessly got yourself ready, grabbed your bag and quietly snuck out. no post it notes were left. no sweet promises or encouraging words. you could do this work trip without him. you were independent. you didn’t need a tin can to chaperone you everywhere. so you left. plain and simple. gone. since you woke up and left earlier than planned, you boarded an earlier train. how lovely and convenient. the carriages were mostly filled with androids. perhaps they were trying to immigrate to canada like the others. who knows. you paid no mind and absentmindedly scrolled through your phone, obsessively checking your messages to see if connor realised. to see if he apologised. because frankly, at that point you were tired of being mad and just wanted to spend the day in his arms. but prideful and petty as you were, you weren’t willing to apologise and admit your mistakes first.

connor roused from stasis a few moments afterward, less bitter and more regretful. he wished to right his wrongs but the normally warm presence beside him was not there. his system was slowly booting back up when his audio sensor picked up an incessant ringing from the living room. he jolted up and rushed out to pick up the ringing phone call and waited for the other side to speak up.

the room was so utterly quiet, a silence so suffocating engulfed the room, that you could hear a pin drop. the voice on the other side asked whether this was indeed your house and that he was indeed connor anderson. he swallowed dryly and answered with a soft, « yes ». running a quick check in his database, he matches the caller’s voice with a certain nathaniel edwards. first responder. he allowed his HUD to display the news. if androids could get pale, have all their blood drain from their faces, his would have certainly done so. he stood, rigid and motionless, consumed by shock and horror.

the news and the first responder’s words blended into one as he gripped the phone tighter: « this morning, at 7:48 am the train from detroit to toronto was caught in a devastating turn of events: the train soon caught in fire and exploded as it made its way over the border. it has been confirmed that there has been 0 survivors. it is unclear whether this was an unfortunate accident or the result of anti-android terrorism. »

the other person’s voice poured through the speaker but he wasn’t listening. he stared blankly in front of him. no way, he thought, it couldn’t have been… the only sign that the android was registering the other man’s input was the now constant red LED.

« sir? sir. i’m sorry to bring this— – no, this isn’t right… you must have the wrong number, he interrupted. there were probably others with your name… maybe they were mistaken... – sir that’s not possible, w— – you must have gotten the wrong house… not… it-it couldn’t have been…» but he knew how improbable it was that they got the wrong number. he was built to be logical, to believe statistics. the statistics told him you were dead. long gone. he hoped and prayed that you stayed back, didn’t get on the earlier train. the statistics told him you did.

he choked out a response, quiet and defeated. you were gone. he’d never get to see you again. « i… i’m sorry… i-i don’t understand… – we tried our best to find them sir, but… the fire was too severe… if we gain any new developm— – you didn’t save them. »

still in a daze, he must have hung up on the poor man and unceremoniously dropped the phone. its clatter the only sound in this deafening silence. the reality of it all comes crashing through and he collapsed, ugly sobs escaping him as the denial faded away to make way for the pure and unfiltered grief. he felt lost. for the first time in a long while since amanda he felt so utterly and completely lost. no more shining beacon during his dark and stormy nights. no more valued affection and coveted kisses. no more notes and no more smile to come home to.

he laughed bitterly, devoid of any humour. it was funny, just how cruel the fates were: made human life so fleeting. lachesisonly gave them such a short eternity. and when he thought you both found your missing halves, bound to another by an invisible string, atropos cuts it. a small snippet that is so easily ripped away from you. he belonged with you, he felt at peace with you. he was able to be what he struggled to be for the majority of his miserable and artificial existence. with you, he was able to be happy.

but now he’ll have to get used to not coming home to a warm embrace. he’ll have to get used to going into stasis alone, in the cold bed. he’ll have to get used to his aching heart being greeted by an empty house. every cold and lonely nights. it’s ridiculous how human he felt because of you. and he was both thankful and spiteful for it.

sadness and bitter regret ripped through him when he remembered that he didn’t share goodbyes before he left. he remembered how he couldn’t have apologised to you and tenderly held you. he regretted not being able to tell you how much he loved you and how much you meant to him for the last time. ra9 only knows the things he’d do and the things he’d sacrifice, just to have you in his arms again.

instead he was faced with the bitter reminder that the last thing he’s ever said to you, your last memory of him, was a contemptuous and scornful « i wished i never met you ».

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#detroit: become human x reader #dbh x reader #connor x reader #rk800 x reader #connor dbh x reader #rk800 dbh x reader #falselywrites #crosspost from main acc

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daydream-hobii · 6 years ago

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Betrayal | Poly!BTS | Part 1

Genre: Poly!AU; Angst

Pairing: BTS x Reader

Summary: Three words circled in your brain, betrayal being the most apparent. You were packing your bags, planning to leave you seven boyfriends before they got home, but when they get there early, you’re forced to witness their heartbreak, as well as prolong yours.

Warning: Mentions of Depression, Anxiety, Insecurities, and Eating Disorders; Read with Caution. <3

Word Count: 1,036

// Part 2 // Part 3 [FINAL] //

Author’s Note: Ohohohoho, I’m back, and with an angsty piece?! Seems appropriate for me, don’t you think? Thank you all so much for waiting for me, there’s not a lot left I have to do for school, however all the big pieces are FINISHED! I love you guys. <3 I hope you like it!

Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. These three words repeated in your head over and over again as you packed your bags in a hurry. Tears threatened to spill onto your cheeks, your nose running. All the hate, all the exhaustion, it just wasn’t worth it anymore.

Your seven boyfriends work so hard, and who's there to comfort them? You are. Every single time. Now, with their new comeback, they’re getting backlash for working with a western artist, they’re trying dance moves that you feel are far too difficult, especially when it comes to Dionysus. Tonight was the one night you needed them, the one night you wanted them so badly, but no. They were practicing.

You felt selfish, you felt as if you shouldn’t feel this way. They make millions of people so happy, they’re so proud of their work, but it’s gotten to a point where you wonder if being their partner is worth it…. You get a lot of hate for even being around them, and their fans think you’re just their best friend that they met almost two years ago. You watch them beat themselves up, both physically and mentally, over everything.

Namjoon and Seokjin working so hard on their dance moves, which are now ten times harder, Yoongi staying up for 26 hours without a wink of sleep just to finish a song, Hoseok coming home with bruises and cuts from how hard he dances…. The Maknae line is no different. Jimin skipping meals, sometimes on accident, others on purpose, just to try to keep his boyish figure. Taehyung being so self conscious of his own body, sometimes in tears from how pudgy he is compared to the others, Jungkook working so hard that he almost passes out from exhaustion…. You couldn’t do this anymore.

The one day of the year you needed them, that’s all you asked, but no. They were all at work, no doubt doing all those things once more. The BBMA’s are coming up, so Halsey was in town and working with them. The jealousy boiling in you was strong, even though you knew it was pointless. No matter how angry you were at them, you would never think they would do anything. Trust was very important among you all.

You listened to the front door open, causing your tense body to freeze. You didn’t expect them to be home so early, you planned to be gone. A couple tears spilled down your cheeks, but you quickly wiped them away, continuing to pack the rest of the clothing you had. You heard them laughing, making your heart hurt even more.

“Jagiya, we’re home-” Jimin shouted, coming in and freezing. The tension built between the two of you, but you just ignored it, finishing your suitcase and slamming it shut.

You couldn’t face Jimin, he was so sensitive, you knew you’d break at his facial expression. There was a silence as you let out a shaky breath, eyes looking at your suitcase.

“I planned to be gone before you came home,” You said, surprisingly confident.

“Why…” Jimin whispered, cautiously.

“Too many reasons,” You replied, lifting your suitcase and walking past him, not meeting his eyes.

Once you entered the living room, the tension just seemed to build. You felt seven pairs of eyes on you, but you ignored it, going straight to the door and opening it, but someone grabbed your arm. You slowly turned your head to see Yoongi, staring at you with hurt eyes. You’re heart sank, and you wanted to hug him, but you forced yourself to look at the door.

“What are you doing…?” He whispered. You could hear the disbelief in his voice, the hurt.

“I’m leaving,” You replied, your voice level.

“What?” Namjoon asked, standing up. You could hear his voice lace with anger. He took things like this differently, anger being his first resort.

“I said I’m leaving,” You repeated, turning and facing them fully. Jimin was already in tears, Hoseok and Yoongi looking panicked. Namjoon and Jungkook looked angry while Seokjin and Taehyung didn’t have any emotions, they looked like they were still processing.

“Why?” Hoseok asked, gently.

“Because I’m tired,” You whispered, eyes softening. “I’m tired of trying.”

“Are you saying we don’t try?” Jungkook asked, his voice rising with every word.

“You try very hard,” You replied, giving a small smile. “You try so hard to be the best you can be, and you’ve become that.”

“This is about our career?” Seokjin asked, finally coming back to reality.

“No, it’s about you working till you drop,” You replied, eyes going hard as you thought of those dreaded three words. “I can’t lift you all every day. I’m just tired of it.”

“Y/n… please, just tell us what you’re thinking,” Taehyung begged, gulping.

“I don’t think this is working out,” You replied, nodding. “You all have each other, you don’t need me, so don’t feel sad about this. It’s for the better.”

“Don’t tell us what we can feel!” Namjoon yelled, hurt apparent in his voice.

“You can’t leave us…” Jimin whispered, wide eyed.

“I can,” You replied, your heart being ripped out of your chest. “If you need comfort, go talk to Halsey.”

“You can’t possibly be jealous,” Yoongi said, surprised. “You never get jealous.”

“What did you guys do tonight, hmm?” You asked, squinting your eyes, curiosity getting the best of you.

“We worked at the studio then went out to eat with her,” Seokjin explained.

You didn’t know they had gone to eat with her…. If you weren’t heartbroken already, you definitely were now. Tears welled up in your eyes as you turned your head away, letting out a shaky breath as tears spilled down your cheeks.

“Jagiya,” Yoongi whispered, stepping towards you, but you stepped away.

“I have to go,” You choked out, turning towards the door.

“So that’s it?” Namjoon asked, still very angry.

You paused, the door open and your hand on your bag. Your heart was heavy as you thought about leaving, all the good memories you had with them will all be just that, memories, as soon as you close this door….

“Happy one year anniversary,” You mumble, the door shutting behind you.

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0kayblue · 5 years ago

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Stupid House

Summary: You buy the house that Robin loved even after she left you.

Word Count: Just short of 3k

Notes: Nothing is gayer then buying a house that your first love was in love with. Even when she left you high and dry.

Character Relations: Robin x Reader (romantic relationship) Steve x Reader (platonic relationship)

A/N: It’s been awhile hasn’t it? I’ve had a hard time bringing myself to write but I decided to just throw this little idea out there. It’s not very good but it is something.

WARNINGS: Bad writing, you’ve been warned.

As you and Robin walked down the street casually chatting over the sound of crisp autumn leaves being crushed under your weight. You were torn between listening to every word that came out of her mouth and the multiple houses that stood solidly next to each other.

Some were newly remodeled and others just new. You thought about all the things you would do differently with them. The type of flowers you would’ve planted outside, or the patio furniture you’d put on the porch. Your mind drifting through the front door and inside, imagining the layout. What rooms were where, how many there were, and how big they were. Thoughts of colors you’d like to paint the walls and themes you’d put in rooms that were barely used. You even started daydreaming about a master bedroom with a king sized bed. Lazy Sunday afternoon naps with light barley creeping its way in through the curtains. Thin fingers gingerly running through your hair as your hand trailed up and down her back. Buried in the crook of her neck, the mix of her perfume and natural scent enveloping you in comfort.

“What do you think?” Robin asked, beaming at you. She pulled you out of your thoughts faster than almost anything else could. You just smiled at her and nodded. You had absolutely no clue what she was talking about.

Robin rolled her eyes and smirked, knowing that you weren’t exactly with her right now. Physically you were right beside her, mentally you were in her arms.

“Okay, so bright yellow platform boots for your birthday, duly noted.” Your full attention brought back to earth as the words ‘bright’ and ‘platform’ hit you like a train. You playfully pushed her.

“What? No!” You laughed lightly as you both stopped at a four way stop.

“Then what do you want?” Robin asked as both of you crossed the street towards the desired destination of the park.

“Robin, my birthday is a while away don’t worry about it. Besides, you need to save all the money from Family Video for college.” Robin just rolled her eyes. “I’m serious.” You firmly reiterated as your eyes go back to the houses. Robin eyes followed yours and you both stopped in front of this one story white house with black trim. With white open steps that lead you onto to small open porch that sat next to a built out window nook. It was a beautiful house, it wasn’t exactly too big, but it also wasn’t too small. It looked like a rather cozy house and something about it just captured your attention.

“I love that house.” Robin said and you turned to her as she gazed at the house. You were quick to look around not seeing anyone in sight as you grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Do you?” You asked as you leaned your head on her shoulder careful of your surroundings. Your body on edge as you let go of her hand and remained against her shoulder.

“Something about it, I don’t know, it just seems safe.” You nodded in agreement.

“Then that’s what I want.”

“What?” Robin said kind of confused. The house? You wanted the house?

“The house. I want this house.” Robin laughed, of course you wanted the house. Robin leaned her head against yours and sighed. She loved you, she truly did.

“Tell you what, if we stay in Hawkins, I’ll buy you the house.” Robin said with a sad smile. Robin knew your plan was to get away, to run as far away from Hawkins as you could, and she couldn’t blame you. After everything you both had been through, not to mention everything that awaited you, away from small town minds was probably for the better. Robin wanted to leave as well, it was just harder. You both had more than just one family now, one that Robin grew more attached to than she originally thought she would.

“That’s cheating.” You said as you smiled warmly at her. You began to walk your own love struck self away from the girl that was head over heels for you.

“No, not really.” She went to explain as she started to catch up by your side.

••••••••••

It’s been ten years since you’ve last seen Robin. Ten long years. You got married, then divorced. Your mom had gotten sick, then died. You told her of your sexuality before she passed, she didn’t understand, your father didn’t either, but they let it go. Which was better than the other outcomes that so many others faced. It wasn’t right, but it was something you had to accept.

Your father went not long after your mother, a broken heart, he was always so dependent on her. Hawkins grew even smaller if that was possible, the news of every odd things that had happened here died down quite a bit, causing people to leave. Remaining questions of all those events you went through being shut down with halfwitted answers from the government. You of course couldn’t tell anyone the truth nor did you really want to. Only few would truly believe and the rest would call you crazy. Not to mention the danger that could bring to El.

Speaking of, El wasn’t in Hawkins nor where the rest of the Hoppers-Byers family. The Wheelers also packed up. Which reminds you that you still have to RSVP to Nancy and Jonthan’s wedding. Lucas, Dustin, and Max all off at college. Lucas and Max still an off and on thing that still managed to entertain you and you looked forward to the nights that they stopped by and would update you on all of there college adventures.

Steve was the only one that remained in Hawkins with you, in fact he lived with you. In that white house with the black trim.

You bought the house after your divorce and right before your mother died. Steve practically moved in as soon as you bought the place. He claimed his rent was getting too high, but you knew he was just lonely. Steve had proven himself to be quite the successful salesman earning more than you did at the bank.

A couple weeks before he moved in his then girlfriend up and left him. Just out of the blue and you had never seen a more heart broken and confused Steve in your life. Your heart really ached for Steve because you knew exactly what that was like.

Which reminds you that you need to get Lydia to come over so he can finally ask her out. They’ve been fawning over each other like a bunch of high schoolers ever since she moved in. They need to get together and get married so hopefully, maybe, you could have your house back. You loved Steve you really did, but you wanted your house back. Not to mention it was time for him to experience romantic love again. But, baby steps you reminded yourself. Baby steps.

You took a deep breath and crawled out of bed. Waking up from a lazy Sunday afternoon, you didn’t have to work on Sundays due to banking hours, so naps were permanently on your Sunday schedule. You stretched as your feet touched the cold wood floor. You put your hand on your lower back as you looked at yourself in the mirror. Your hair was a wreck and your dads oversized shirt came untucked from the pair of shorts you had on. You just rolled your eyes and ran your fingers through your hair brushing it out. You glanced at the clock and it was already about time for dinner.

“Steve.” You called out as you began to walk out of your room. “Are you going out tonight or do I need to make dinner for two?” You asked as you walked into the kitchen your eyes focused on him sitting in your chair.

“Uh,…” Steve began as you raised an eyebrow. You looked down at the table to the steam coming from your favorite mug. You heard the guest bathroom toilet flush and the sink began to run. A wicked smirk found your face, that dog. Steve, the hair, Harrington was finally making a move.

“Steve, who’s here? Did you invite Lydia-?” You were cut off as the guest bathroom door opening and Robin looked you dead in the eyes. Your heart stopped as she looked at you sadly. A crooked smile on her face. Robin looked aged from her time away from Hawkins, still stunningly perfect, but obviously older. She was dressed to the nines in an all black pant suit that made your cheeks flush. She looked incredible and you were standing here in pjs with semi-crazy hair.

“Dinner for three?” Steve asked breaking the dense silence. You just closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and backed away back into your room.

Robin flinched when she heard the door slam shut. She didn’t even say hi. She was so relieved to see you and you still looked so beautiful. She looked at the space where you once stood and her gaze quickly found Steve.

“You didn’t tell her I was coming?” Robin asked sharply.

“You literally called like thirty minutes ago! I wasn’t going to wake her up and be like ‘hey, wake up, y’know Robin, the girl who ripped your heart into shreds, our former best friend, yeah she’s going to be here in thirty minutes.’, I was not going to do that!” Steve was quick to defend himself and with good reason. Waking you from a nap was an awful idea to begin with.

“Well she would’ve liked the warning, dingus.” Robin said as her hands found her hips. Considering you first was always done, but no matter how Robin tried to plan things with you it always came out a lot different than how she originally wanted it.

“I was going to give her one, when YOU were at the restaurant waiting on us. That way she could’ve made the decision if she even wanted to see you or not. I was going to give her the option.” Steve retorted crossing his arms. The weight of this situation truly falling into Robin’s shoulders.

Steve was ecstatic to see Robin, but also furious. She packed up in the middle of the night and left she didn’t call, hell she didn’t even leave a note. She just left. She left him, the kids, and you without even a goodbye. You all mourned her like she was dead. Honestly what were you supposed to do? No one could even get into contact with her.

Robin sighed and returned to her coffee. She needed to get away. Her parents were down her throat and she let it slip that you and her where more than just “best friends”, they flipped out and Robin ran away. Part of her wanted to talk it through with you, but the other part told her she couldn’t bare the thought of dragging you down with her. I mean who knew how your parents would react, so she just took off. She regretted it and always thought about calling, but never did. She thought about calling everyone, because she hurt everyone. Not just you.

“I am sorry, Steve. I am sorry I took off without a word. I should have talked with you, at least.” Steve’s expression softened and he approached Robin slowly. His gaze softened as he pulled Robin into his embrace.

“You dingus.” Steve said as Robin’s body tensed from the sudden embrace. She was soon to relax and wrap her arms around Steve.

“I know, in this case I am.” Steve's eyes started to water as he pulled away.

“Alright.” He said sniffling and hitting Robin on the shoulder. “Alright.” He repeated a little stronger. “I’ll try and get (Y/N) out-.”

“No. Let me try.” Robin quickly cut him off and headed towards the room she saw you run into. She put her ear against the door overhearing your sobs. Guilt coursed through Robin’s veins as she turned the door knob. It was surprisingly not locked. As she opened the door she caught a glimpse of you standing with your head in your hands.

“Get out!” You screamed furiously as you threw a pillow at Robin. As the pillow hit her square in the face, you cursed that you didn’t skip the nap today and put working locks on your doors. “Don’t you knock?” You questioned as you went to grab another pillow.

“Hey, hey, listen to me.” Robin began ready to catch the pillow. Robin has only seen you act like this once. You went mental after a run in with a demogorgon and it was the second saddest thing Robin had ever seen, this was the first. She caused you to lose it, it was her fault, and that tore her apart.

Robin approached you slowly as you held that pillow like a shield. You didn’t want her anywhere near you, but at the same time you were so relieved she was here. That the nightmares that plagued you about her weren’t a reality. Robin started to get on the bed and shook as she walked on it. The tears wouldn’t stop and you most definitely couldn’t make them. Your vision was blurry as you looked up at her.

“What do you want?” You said coldly as she jumped onto the ground.

“A welcome hug, dork. What else?” She said and the cold facade vanished quickly as you slammed yourself into her arms. You needed her, you hated to admit it, but you needed her.

Robin arms wrapped tightly around you as she buried her face into your hair. The familiar perfumed scented shampoo welcoming her home. Robin began to sob, she missed you so much. The fact that you stayed here threw her into confusion but she was thankful that you were here.

“I h-hate you.” You stuttered out through sobs.

“I know.” Robin said with a chuckle as she fell back onto the bed. As you both landed on the bed you both laughed. It was an odd laugh, it didn’t make any sense, but what made sense about any of this. Absolutely nothing, none of this made sense. Robin didn’t deserve your embrace and she knew that, but here you both laid. Wrapped up in each others arms, soaking up each moment like it was the last time you were ever going to be together.

You both started to calm down as her soft hand cupped your face. It wasn’t her place to touch you like this. To try and hold you like nothing ever changed, but she couldn’t help herself. You didn’t stop her either, you can't bring yourself to do it. You waited so long for this. Ten years too long did you wait for this. Your rage would have to wait, because right now you needed this. You needed her. You craved her.

You brought your lips to hers and the fireworks you felt when you first kissed returned full force. Robin melted into you as you deepened the kiss.

In that moment Robin knew it was going to be okay, that you would be okay, but she still needed to apologize. She needed to tell you the truth, no matter how hard it was getting to pry herself away from you. As the kisses grew messier and more needy between you two the guilt began to submerge Robin.

“(Y/N).” Robin cooed as she pulled away from you. A whine escaped your lips as you looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry.” Robin said you pushed yourself away from her and took a deep breath. Most of you wished she didn’t say anything that way you could just have her again, but in retrospect that was a bad idea.

“I know.” You mumbled as you sat up. Robin’s face fell, that was the answer she expected, she didn’t want that answer but it was the one she got.

“I ran away and I shouldn’t have. I was just scared and I regret not talking to you first. My parents found out I was gay and flipped out and I couldn’t bring you down with me.” You took a deep breath and wiped your eyes. Of course they found out.

“It’s okay, I don’t forgive you, but it’s okay. I understand.” You said standing up and heading towards the bedroom door. You understood that fear and it took everything to not run away from your mother's death bed.

“You can stay as long as you want-.” You began, this emotional hurricane becoming too much.

“I never stopped loving you.” The words falling from Robin’s lips as she cut you off. It was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “I still love you.” You began to rub your temples. “I’m serious, I love you.” She replied very anxiously awaiting a reply. You had to still love her, right?

“I understand if you don’t feel the same way. I mean after what I did. I don’t deserve you, I really don’t. I never have-.” You just laughed, hoping that Robin would let herself breath a little. You still loved her, you never stopped.

“Of course I still love you. Why do you think I bought this stupid house?” You laughed and Robin’s body carried you to her before she could really think to do so. She pulled you into a tight embrace, you still loved her and that’s all that mattered to her.

Things weren’t fixed completely between you and Robin, but it was a start.

#robin buckley #robin x y/n #robin x reader #stranger things #stranger things imagines #stranger thing imagine #steve harrington #hayley writes a bit #im so tired #this is so bad #i am so sorry #robin deserve better and I swear I will give her better #i just needed to get something out #somehting sad but sweet #angst with a happy ending #angst #gay asf

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pointedly-foolish · 5 years ago

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[ вut "sєntímєntαl вσч" ís mч nσm dє plumє ]

word count: 1916

pairing: connor/gn!reader

genre: slight fluff; hurt no comfort

a/n: everytime i convince myself i came out of my dbh hyperfixation i just look at connor and i become lovesick again.

gosh i know i should be finishing my other fic or work on the prologue script for my vn, but,,,,,,, i just had a sudden hankering for connor angst,,,,

written during a sleep deprivation induced moment of epiphany,,,,, (purple prose cuz im extra af uwu)

I’ve never written angst before so i’d love to hear your thoughts on it

you did what you were designed to do.

no matter how much he begged and cried for it.

he laughed bitterly, devoid of any humour. it was funny, just how cruel the fates were: made human life so fleeting. lachesis only gave them such a short eternity. and when he thought you both found your missing halves, bound to another by an invisible string, atropos cuts it. a small snippet that is so easily ripped away from you. he belonged with you, he felt at peace with you. he was able to be what he struggled to be for the majority of his miserable and artificial existence. with you, he was able to be happy.

instead he was faced with the bitter reminder that the last thing he’s ever said to you, your last memory of him, was a contemptuous and scornful « i wished i never met you ».

like my work? consider ordering a commission // buying me a coffee // checking out my art tag or my masterlist | links can be found on my desc

#detroit: become human #connor detroit: become human #connor x reader #connor dbh #connor rk800 #falsely writes

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almostarchaeology · 5 years ago

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Hogwarts Needs Archaeologists, Part 2: Excavating Magic

By Adrián Maldonado

In the last blog post, I realized that despite being suffused with ancient artefacts, the wizarding world of Harry Potter didn’t seem to have any archaeologists. Instead, wizards and witches live in a weirdly eternal present with little sense of how things have come to be as they are, and this ultimately caused them no end of trouble. So much of the story hinges on prominent characters not knowing about artefacts and landscapes of medieval origin that it seemed clear that the establishment of a Wizarding Museum or department of Magical Material Culture Studies at Hogwarts may have genuinely saved them from war.

Harry Potter Studio Tour: closest we’ll get to a wizarding museum (source)

Even though wizards can’t be arsed learning about their own past, it behooves us muggle archaeologists to interrogate this invisible but fundamental aspect of our shared human past. As the books make clear, muggles and wizards are all just human. The separation between the two has its roots in the same intellectual fallacy of early modern thought which gave muggles the concept of race – that human ability could be measured in purity of ‘blood’. Beyond a focus on antiquities, attention to the archaeological context of the wizarding world is essential to the project of interrogating the human condition, and will produce new insights on the muggle past and present. To learn more, we will have to conduct some fieldwork of our own.

When is magic?

Before we start planning the Godric’s Hollow Big Dig, we need to know how archaeology might work in the wizarding world. Looking back at these stories with nerd-tinted spectacles, it seems to me that magic changes over time, and the ways it is deployed may tell us something about the human journey, magically-abled or otherwise.

No - obviously no we don’t

We know there are one or two people who care about history and magical theory, because in Philosopher’s Stone we get a list of textbooks assigned to first-years at Hogwarts which includes A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot and Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling. However, we get precious few glimpses into these texts as Harry does not seem to read. We also know these are used in some of the most boring and tedious courses taught at Hogwarts, ensuring few wizards would want to go on to study them further. Occupy the curriculum!

As we explored in the previous post, it seems that history in the wizarding world seems to begin only around a thousand years ago, when Hogwarts was founded. Much of what passes for history is the merely the genealogy of famous houses. It is curiously similar to Europe in the early nineteenth century, when there was an awareness of classical antiquity, but no such concept as prehistory. Perhaps it is a world that somehow has not yet discovered archaeology?

Archaeology > time travel (source)

Perhaps, one might argue, there is no need for wizarding archaeologists because wizards have time-turners which allow time travel. However, it so happens that time travel beyond a few hours in the past is extremely dangerous and heavily regulated, and in any case all of the remaining time-turners in the Department of Mysteries were destroyed in the Second Wizarding War.

That notwithstanding, one might also argue that wizards don’t need archaeology because anyone could stand in a field and cast spells like Accio coin hoard, or Revelio Roman villa and be done with it. But as with metal detecting, simply ripping an object out the ground does not help you understand why it got there, and if done poorly it may even impede the possibility of reconstructing its context later. Similarly, chasing the walls of a Roman villa would destroy the evidence of just how it was reduced to its foundations and what happened in this spot for the next two millennia. This would not be archaeology, but antiquarianism. And we don’t even seem to have that.

That said, it would be great to magically de-turf, sieve and cart away spoil. We could sure use the help backfilling, too.

But what about excavating magical sites? Can magic be excavated? Do we even know when magic began? Could archaeologists help find out?

Awareness of enchantments

Dunno Harry - it’s either paleolithic or a horcrux (source)

A lot of our knowledge of how magic works in the Potterverse comes from the fleeting glimpses we get of masters like Dumbledore at work. In the iconic 26th chapter of Half-Blood Prince, The Cave, we watch the headmaster undertake some hardcore field survey.

“Magic always leaves traces”, he explains as he detects the curses and spells that Tom Riddle placed to secure the hiding place of one of his horcruxes.

Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or to the same awareness of enchantments. Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring words in a strange tongue that Harry did not understand. Twice Dumbledore walked right around the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backwards and forwards over a particular spot…

Dark magic, at least, seems to be detectable, at least to those, like Dumbledore and Harry, lucky enough to have been born in Godric’s Hollow, where all of British wizarding history starts and ends. Throughout the books, we hear occasional stories of places or objects having ‘old magic’, which also gives off some sort of distinctive trace. Indeed, there seems to be nothing worse than old Dark magic, which leaves more than just a trace. This is most aptly described in the Pottermore essay on Azkaban, which was only discovered after its occupier, the dark sorcerer Ekrizdis, died and its concealment charms faded away. “Experts who had studied buildings built with and around Dark magic contended that Azkaban might wreak its own revenge upon anybody attempting to destroy it.” Wait, there are experts in magical architectural history but not archaeology? That figures, actually – in its origins, medieval archaeology was itself mainly about unearthing the ground plans of castles and cathedrals.

As many of our archaeological textbooks tell us, excavation is managed destruction. So would it ever be possible to excavate a site of old Dark magic, or would this count as an attempt to ‘destroy’ it? And how would one know until one tried to dig there? Speaking as a former archaeology health and safety officer, I can’t help but think of the threat old Dark magic might pose to any novice archaeowizard who works on such sites. Real-world archaeologists need to make sure they are up to date on all their vaccinations, but I’m not sure what can be done to prevent accidental cursing by taking a mattock to the wrong enchanted soil layer.

Revelio stratigraphy

Dumbledore’s methodology and Harry’s ‘awareness of enchantments’ lead me to believe that such threats can be averted, or at least mitigated, by undertaking preventative magophysical survey. The question is whether the traces of spells that Dumbledore and Harry can sense have a physical signature that can be isolated and detected mechanically – or perhaps, by wand. Wandmaker Ollivander’s notes on wand woods shows that some woods may be more receptive to the natural world than others; for instance, “Hazel wands also have the unique ability to detect water underground, and will emit silvery, tear-shaped puffs of smoke if passing over concealed springs and wells.” In this instance at least, it seems that wands can have involuntary, mechanical responses to certain external stimuli. Other woods and wand cores are also said to have the ability to learn and detect magical character. In short, this is an area that needs a lot more research, but would still be restricted to the wizarding population, which, as we have already seen, could barely give a toss about their own heritage.

People and things in the Potterverse

Old magic can be the most powerful (source)

Speaking of wands, these ‘objects’ open up some pretty fundamental questions about the nature of things and people in the Potterverse. This was all explored in some depth in my scriptural commentary of choice, Binge Mode Harry Potter episode 55, wherein Jason Concepcion devoted a Restricted Section to wands. From the beginning of the series, we are told that wands are semi-animate objects with agency of their own. Wands famously ‘choose’ their owners, but it does not end there; in his notes on wand woods, Ollivander observes that hazel wands die with their owners, and that

Hornbeam wands likewise absorb their owner’s code of honour, whatever that might be, and will refuse to perform acts – whether for good or ill – that do not tally with their master’s principles. A particularly fine-tuned and sentient wand.” [Emphasis mine]

Most interestingly, wands seem to become a part of their owner’s essence; as wandmaker Ollivander explains, “each wand is the composite of its wood, its core and the experience and nature of its owner”. What he is describing here is a rudimentary sort of assemblage theory.

Assembling the wizard (source)

It seems wands are only ‘objects’ until they choose an owner, at which point they become part-person. And as we saw in a previous post, wands and pensieves are often buried with their owners, as if they are indivisibly entwined with the wizard, even after death. In a similar but more sinister way, Voldemort is able to ensoul objects, and these Horcruxes take on shades of his person which enact his will on anyone who encounters them. The wizarding world is full of objects that are part-people, or is it people that are part object?

This should come as no surprise to anthropologists. For decades theorists have explored all the different ways in which we are entangled with the people, things, environments and social structures in which we are embedded. We look to other continents and distant pasts to seek parallels when they are all around us. For instance, ancient Egyptians had a complicated idea of what constituted the person, from the physical body to several aspects of what we patronisingly call ‘the soul’, mainly because we cannot translate its complexity into any other Judeo-Christian terminology. These include the name, the heart and the shadow, and it is striking how many of these aspects of the person could be made to reside into what we would call inanimate objects.

The Enlightenment notion of the individual with unlimited agency, existing only within the bounds of their own bodies and minds, is very much out of fashion, as I have accidentally already explored in previous posts on this blog. We have trouble dissociating people from their belongings after they die, as if they remain uncannily inhabited. We send our names to space by the thousands, because it matters that this aspect of our selves is preserved in some way. Wizards are merely cyborgs, but then, aren’t we all?

Excavating the self

His teaching style was unorthodox to say the least (Warner Bros. Pictures)

The problem here is that the Harry Potter cycle is, on the face of it, distinctly repulsed by the idea of a soul being split up and distributed among objects and people. But this critique always kind of rang false for me. Voldemort is guilty of lots of things (murder, bigotry, aversion to rhinoplasty), but not the inhabitation of objects. The story is full of ways in which people are permeable beyond horcruxes; wands, pensieves, names, portraits, ghosts, Tom Riddle’s diary and the Sorting Hat, which contains the ‘intelligence’ of the Hogwarts founders, all ‘store’ an essence of the person. As we saw in the previous post, the Hogwarts founders are represented by objects which act as relics. At one point, Hermione even becomes multiple selves in her third year with a time-turner. More mystical happenings involve the permeation of one’s self into another: Lily Potter’s love shields Harry; Snape’s Patronus becomes Lily’s doe; Harry’s Patronus is his father’s. Through the wands, the self is extended. In the pensieve, memory becomes material, reminding us that thoughts, emotions and perhaps even magic, are of the body. “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?”

Without digging a single trench or featuring a single archaeologist, Rowling’s universe predicted a lot that would become fashionable in archaeological theory in the 21st century. Perhaps the most important lesson imparted by the books is that the difference between muggles and wizards is simply awareness. It is not only muggles who are unaware of the magic world under our feet (and apparently latent in our blood). Wizards are also unaware of where and when their powers reside. And if wizards could be convinced to take a material turn, what might muggles achieve by exploring their own entanglement with the wizarding world? Might we excavate an awareness of the enchantment within us all?

***

Back to Part 1: Fantastic Antiquities and Where to Find Them

#Harry Potter #Magic #fantasy #personhood #material culture

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ikesenhell · 6 years ago

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Concrete and Glass

The Measurement of Time: Chapter 7. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTES: This whole story does not make much sense without the context from To Honor And Protect! Please go back and read that before you proceed with TMOT. Tagging @ikemenprincessnaga at request.

The tunnel stretched on and on. Sasuke wondered about how far they were walking. Practically speaking, they didn’t have enough supplies to go forever onward, given that they’d literally been snatched at a moment’s notice from the kitchen. To conserve their torch they doused the lamp. The dim light of the moon filtering through the water was enough.

“When do you think this was built?” Uesugi mused, knocking her fist against the glass. Sasuke wondered if he would’ve chanced something that bold. Mercifully, the glass held up.

“Well, glassworking in this region has always been remarkably advanced. The main glass wall of the palace was constructed approximately two hundred years ago. I’d place this as a contemporary.”

She cast him an amused glance. “You’re a walking dictionary, huh?”

“I’ve heard that before. Apologies.”

“No, I didn’t mean that as a bad thing. I like it.”

Sasuke didn’t know what to say to that. He nudged his glasses up his nose and tried not to parse that too much. “Can you see the end yet? I wore my spares this morning. Clearly it isn’t working out.”

“That’s fine. It’s too murky to tell anyway.” With a sigh, she reached up and teased out her braid, twist after twist of ice blonde hair swinging free down to her waist. What else could he do but stare? She was beautiful regardless of the context, but something about her easy expression made his chest tighten. “I wonder if Uncle Kenshin knew anything about this place?”

That was right. How had he forgotten that? “Did you know him long?”

“I lived with him for almost five years.” She rapped her fingers on the hilt of her sword. “He granted me his own sword in his will. My father and mother had four children--myself, my elder sister, and my two brothers--and I was always more like Uncle Kenshin than anyone else. I idolized him anyway.” Absently she ran her thumb over the hand guard, eyes staring off. “When my great-aunt died, my father and mother knew he wasn’t going to... he didn’t handle loss well. He’d seen enough of it, what with the invasion and his first wife and all that. So they sent me to live with him when I was four. He was around eighty, and he didn’t have any kids of his own, so he doted on me like crazy.”

“Did he?” Sasuke chuckled. “I haven’t heard any stories of him like that.”

“Oh hell no. Most of them are about him doing things like surprise attacking the others in the Nine to keep them on their guard.” But she grinned and nodded. “Probably true, mind you. But anyway, he adored me and I would have died for him. He started training me in little things like ‘discipline’ and ‘stance’ when I was probably five. My father and him had a bunch of arguments about when I’d be allowed to have a knife. Uncle Kenshin’s idea of an ‘acceptable age’ differed wildly from my father’s.”

A beat. She lowered her eyes, those pale lashes kissing her cheeks, and softly exhaled. Without thinking, Sasuke brushed back a lock of her hair and tucked it behind her ear.

“Do you miss him?”

“All the time.” But she sighed and looked up again. “But I move on. I am the inheritor of the Uesugi name, and I’m proud to wear that. No one will take that from me.”

Sasuke didn’t usually smile. It was so foreign that he realized he was doing it immediately and Uesugi’s eyes widened in shock.

“You smile?”

“I--” He flushed. “I’ve considered the possibility that I have some kind of physical or psychological limitations on the range of my expressions--I can, I just--”

“Encyclopedia.” She snickered and checked his chin with the edge of her finger. “Don’t worry. I’m just giving you hell.”

Before he could stop himself, Sasuke teased back, “You make jokes?”

Surprise flickered on her before she leaned back her head and laughed. It echoed off the glass, sang through the hall, sank deep as the ocean into his stomach and settled there. A fan of being locked underground he was not--but seeing her finally undone was worth it in ways he didn’t know how to articulate.

“Good one, Sasuke.” She fixed him with a rare smile. “We’ll make you one of us yet.”

“Thank you.” And he paused. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you prefer I call you Captain, or Uesugi, or...?”

Her lips pursed ever so slightly. “Since we’re technically off duty, you may call me by my name. Usually you would refer to me as Captain.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve never caught your first name.”

“No?” She tittered. “I guess not. Seiren. Seiren Uesugi.”

---

They reached the end of the hall, and there was a massive door before them. Or there was. It was ripped out of place, swinging back and forth on a single, lonely hinge.

“That’s a great sign,” she muttered, drawing her weapon. “Would you?”

Sasuke lit the torch again and waved it in front of the opening. Nothing greeted them except another pitch black hallway. No more was there a glass skylight. Now they would be utterly alone in it.

“Wonderful.” Squaring her shoulders, Seiren stepped into the gaping dark. “No way out but forward.”

This section of hallway was less polished than the others. Rough, hastily-constructed concrete framed the walls here. He could see handprints and footprints from days gone by memorialized in the cast. Once upon a time it was well used. The ground was smooth and worn under his foot.

“This looks like it was a main causeway.”

“Then we were right in our theory.” Seiren tapped a fist against the wall. “It was probably the main way between the Trinity Islands and the City. What happened? Communication and travel would be easier with this. Why did they change it?”

No answers awaited them in the dark. They pressed onward. Eventually they reached a stair step leading upwards--and at the top, a faint light.

“Okay.” She squared her shoulders. “Time to face the music and find out.”

This was their chance. Cautiously she braced her shoulder under the trapdoor before them. Sasuke readied his weapon, just in case. Then--in one fluid motion she shoved it open, and they both drew their swords.

“Fuck,” she gasped. “What the fuck.”

The scorched room around them was familiar. It was a full five seconds before either of them recovered themselves long enough to clamber from the hiding spot and take a cautious look around. Nothing had changed since their last visit. The shattered sarcophagus lay in fragments around the room.

“Can--” Her voice staggered. “Can it fit through this passage?”

“I don’t--”

“Sasuke, this is very important. Could that thing, theoretically, fit through this passage?”

He ran the calculation in his mind. “Yes. Probably.”

“Fuck!” The expletive echoed, so she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“So it can reach the City.”

“Apparently. Apparently! And it isn’t in here. And it can’t fit that way--” Seiren motioned up the stairs toward the rest of the island. “So there’s only one way out. How did we miss it?”

“Was it behind that wall?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I hope so. This is not good.”

Sasuke didn’t know what to say to that. She was right. To offer blind assurances was insulting to both her sense of alarm and his understanding of probability. It had attacked them. It had free roam underneath a city full of people. Someone had locked them in. It seemed to possess intelligence, ergo, it wasn’t a stretch to assume they were just prey in a maze and happened to escape. He couldn’t think about it now. The moonlight dipping into the room from the island was high, and they needed rest.

“Come on,” he said. “We need to at least summon help, if not take a bit of a rest. We’ve been at it for hours. You can’t maintain vigilance if you’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,’ she snapped. Only a moment later she mellowed. “I know.”

“Let’s go.”

They navigated their way up. The breeze washed cold over his cheeks. At least the rain had stopped. Seiren fiddled with her necklace until it pulsed a faint blue.

“What’s that?”

“Aria’s grandmother made these. They’re signal flares of a sort. Theirs will flash in the City--probably--and they’ll be given an idea of where I am by sound. It’s a nifty little thing.”

“Oddly specific, too.”

“I think she made it for Mitsuhide Akechi. He was blind after the invasion, I think.”

Fair enough. Sasuke and she picked their way through the rubble of the Town Hall and into the village on the island. Some of the structures stood, though not many anymore. They broke their way into one that had a half decent living room and lit a fire in the grate, spreading their cloaks across the floor for makeshift futons. His legs hurt, his feet were sore, his shoulders were weary--and still he didn’t know how he would sleep.

“Seiren?”

A beat. He wondered if she was asleep before she responded. “Yes?”

Sasuke didn’t even know why he was saying her name. “Nevermind. I think I forgot what I was going to say.”

“Hah.” Her chuckle rumbled through the floorboards. “Is it strange if I say I’m very uneasy right now?”

“No. I think that’s fair.”

“Yeah.” Another beat. “If anything happens to the City while I’m gone, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

What could he say? “If anything happens while you are gone, it will be at least better than if we never discovered anything below the City at all. No doubt the others have an alarm going because we’ve been gone.”

“You’re right.” She hummed. “You’re right. They’re capable.”

Finally sleep crept up on him. Sasuke folded his glasses against his chest and shut his heavy eyes, willing it to take control. Just before he slipped into a dreamless sleep, he felt a soft head nest against his shoulder.

“Seiren?” He mumbled through a fog.

“I’m cold,” she muttered petulantly.

“Alright.”

#Ikesen #Ikemen Sengoku #Ikesen Descendants #Ikesen Sasuke #Sasuke Sarutobi #Sarutobi Sasuke #my writing #TMOT #The Measurement of Time #Female!Uesugi #Seiren Uesugi #Ikesen Medieval Au #Ikesen Fantasy Au #Uesugi Seiren #Concrete and Glass #Fluff

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stompsite · 7 years ago

Text

The One About Dark Souls

This piece was originally slated for another publication about a year ago. It didn’t get published. So here it is.

This time, I’m confident I have him. Father Gascgoine has been plaguing me for weeks, but I’ve got it all worked out. I enter the arena, pumped up and ready to do this. For a few minutes, everything’s fine, but then I feel that telltale twinge in my hand. Before I know it, the pain’s burning up my arm and into my neck. I have to put the controller down. My poor health has betrayed me again. I’ll never be good enough to beat a Souls game.

Dark Souls is hard. That’s what it’s known for. In a world where the biggest and most successful games are built on promises about playing your own way, Dark Souls is brutal and unrelenting. FromSoftware’s magnum opus demands you take it on its own terms, a strategy that has proved wildly popular; few games can lay claim to a fanbase as passionate and loyal as Dark Souls.

A debate has raged for years over whether or not Dark Souls would benefit from an easy mode. Fans will tell you that no, difficulty is an essential element of the Dark Souls experience, that much of the game’s fun is found in its difficulty, and they have a point. Others, people who have wanted to embrace the series, but derive enjoyment in games from anything other than challenge, believe that Dark Souls would be better off with an easy mode.

Dark Souls joins all-time greats like Doom and Donkey Kong in establishing its own formula. Indie and AAA game developers alike have borrowed heavily from the Souls series, with games like Salt and Sanctuary, Lords of the Fallen, and Nioh. Before we ask ourselves whether Souls should have an easy mode, we need to understand how Souls games work.

Souls works like this: you, the player, have to travel through the game’s world, conquering its challenging bosses. Whenever you defeat an enemy, you earn a currency, called ‘souls,’ or ‘blood echoes,’ or something similar, which you use to purchase upgrades. If you die, you drop your collection of souls and respawn at the last save point, usually a physical location like a bonfire. Crucially, you cannot bank souls. This means that as your power grows, so does the need to explore world, putting yourself at risk, until you have enough souls to purchase more powerful upgrades.

The combat requires you to play thoughtfully. You must keep an eye on your stamina bar, which drains based on your attacks and movement. Draining your stamina at an inopportune time could result in an unfortunate death. Your attacks are usually animation-driven, which means that when you press a button to attack, you cannot break out of the attack animation until it has completed. A properly-timed attack means the difference between life and death in a Souls game.

These mechanics are then set in a world designed to accommodate them. Souls mechanics would never work in a game like The Witcher 3, where players could simply observe enemies and circle around them, avoiding the confrontation entirely. Souls maps, on the other hand, are built with explicit encounter design in mind. An early encounter in Dark Souls 3 features a dragon that will easily roast unsuspecting players. You rush up some stairs, get roasted, die, and start back at the bonfire, wiser now than you were before. As you progress, you discover shortcuts that make traversal significantly easier.

Over time, you learn about the game’s world. What seemed like cruelty at first is playful and mischievous. The world becomes more readable. Dark Souls thrives on initial surprise and eventual mastery. “Git gud,” the fanbase’s mantra, isn’t so much a statement of derision as a description of the player’s evolution. The more you play, the better you become.

One of the big appeals of turn-based games like XCOM and Civilization is the way they convince their players to keep going. “Just one more turn,” you tell yourself, and before you know it, it’s 5 in the morning and you’ve been up all night and have nearly liberated Earth from an alien menace. The Souls games are like that too, but they use difficulty to accomplish the same thing. Get instakilled by a cleverly-placed boss? Before you know it, you’re back at the nearest bonfire. “That was a cheap death,” you tell yourself, “I can totally get past it.”

Dark Souls is a game of mastery, expertly crafting an emotional narrative to accompany your growing skill. Overcoming that seemingly-impossible boss is thrilling. Laughing along at the designer’s jokey ambushes is enjoyable. Souls engages you, draws you in, and delivers some of the best emotional highs in gaming.

It’s unfair to say that Souls is just a hard game; there are thousands of challenging games out there. Dead Rising 2 creates challenge through time management. Ikaruga’s difficulty is based on player reflex. Souls is a game that uses its difficulty tuning to help establish its compelling formula. Without the difficulty, so much of what makes Souls such a brilliant series would be lost.

Despite this, I wish the Souls games had an easy mode, because I can’t play it like you. I want to share in the stories and strategies. I want to beat Father Gascoigne with a Donkey Conga controller and put the video up on YouTube. I want to master the game’s systems. I want to be a part of this passionate and vibrant community so much, but I can’t.

I can’t because my body is shutting down.

Twelve years ago, I got sick. At first, it was just mild fatigue. Doctors said it was some bug that would pass. Family thought it was teenage laziness. Then it got worse. Prior to getting sick, I’d been learning to fly planes. I used to climb regularly at the YMCA. I loved boating--whether it was a 50 mile camping trip or whitewater rafting, I was there. Within months, I’d almost completely lost my ability to function. One doctor told me that, after looking at my lab results, she was amazed I had the strength to get out of bed at all.

It took four years to get a diagnosis, but instead of having some name to give my illness, like cancer or lupus or something, I was told that some genes just didn’t work right. It was a lot more complicated than that, but that’s the gist of it. As a result, I suffer from chronic pain and chronic fatigue, and I also have all the symptoms that come with a severe lack of magnesium, because my body doesn’t absorb it properly.

Chronic fatigue is a deeply misunderstood disease. People don’t get it. If you get cancer or multiple sclerosis, there is some degree of understanding there. Chronic fatigue is much harder to explain. Many people don’t believe it’s real. Some countries classify it as a mental disorder, rather than a physical one. Everything I ever wanted to do in life has been ripped away from me by this illness. Without games writing, which I’m fortunate enough to be able to do from home, I don’t know how I would survive.

During her TED talk on chronic fatigue, documentarian Jennifer Brea pauses and simply states “my brain is not what it used to be.” I know what she means, because I’ve been there. I was so much more than this. Chronic fatigue consumes everything. I’m lucky because for me, there is some degree of hope. With regular treatment, I could go back to living something resembling a normal life, but since the illness limits what jobs I can take, my income is limited, which limits my ability to pay for treatment for my illness. Dealing with my illness is as simple as a potential employer taking a chance on me so I can earn enough to pay for treatment. I don’t know how I’ll ever get to a place where I can afford regular treatment, but I hope that one day I will.

In the meantime, I play games, which are an incredible escape from chronic pain and chronic fatigue. A physical therapist once told me that people like me spend 90% of our attention on keeping pain at bay. Playing games helps offload some of that stress. But, as you can imagine, playing Dark Souls style games for me is a lot harder than it is for most folks, which makes escapism challenging. So many of my friends love finding their Dark Souls groove and playing the game for hours. I’d love to experience that too.

Most of you aren’t likely to have your hands seize up after playing for half an hour, much less be drained for an entire weekend after trying and failing to take down Bloodborne’s Father Gascoigne. An easy mode for me would mean that I could enjoy these games at the same level of effort that you do.

But it’s not that simple. Disability isn’t something most of us talk about openly. Discussing it has a tendency to make people uncomfortable; some even resent having to deal with it. It’s hard to leave the house most days, knowing that most people don’t have the compassion or patience to put up with my illness. Worse still, many people go out of their way to make things worse, justifying it with some weird, self-righteous slant I’ve never understood.

I’ve had employers force me to work in conditions that exacerbated my symptoms because they thought they could convince me that my illness was all in my mind, never mind what the doctor’s notes said. Heck, I got kicked off a podcast; two of my fellow podcasters told me they were doing me a favor. Apparently, cutting off all ties would help me magically get over my illness and manage my life better. When it comes to disability, otherwise good people can do terrible things, going to great lengths to justify their abuse as “for your own good.”

Playing games with my friends or chatting about games on forums, twitter, and Skype gives me the ability to socialize with other people without having to worry about my illness getting in the way. As long as I remain untreated, I’ll be a shut-in, but I can still have human contact through the internet.

While I can talk about my own experiences in great detail, I am far from the only person whose health issues limit gameplay options. Many disabilities limit gameplay. I have a friend with severe arthritis that makes gaming on a console impossible. Two of my friends have epilepsy, which can be triggered by playing certain video games. I’ve met people with color-blindness and deafness; all of these things impact their gameplay experience.

How far should a developer go in ensuring their audience can enjoy their work? Generally, I think it’s best to err on the side of accessibility; if a game can support a color-blind mode, it should. If a designer can ensure that hearing impaired players have good subtitles, their game would benefit from its inclusion.

With my chronic pain and fatigue issues, rapidly mashing buttons in games like Bayonetta or God of War can be physically draining; alternate QTE options would go a long way towards making games more accessible. I was delighted to discover that Dragon Age: Inquisition, a huge, open world game, had an auto-run toggle button. Splatoon offers players a wide variety of playstyles, allowing players to contribute, regardless of ability.

At the same time, I recognize that not every solution is a perfect one; shoot-em-ups like Ikaruga are built to be bright and flashy. Projectiles have to be big and bright enough to dodge. These games can trigger symptoms in epilepsy sufferers, and I don’t think there’s a way to avoid that without fundamentally changing the game’s design.

There is no easy answer, but offering multiple difficulty modes, vision modes, and allowing control customization all go a long way towards keeping games accessible.

Some developers and publishers are going the distance to make sure that disabled gamers are cared for. Microsoft has recently introduced copilot mode, which allows two different controllers to control the same game. The Xbox One Elite controller is great for players with disabilities thanks to its extensive customization options. Unfortunately, Sony does not offer similar disability support, but thanks to devices like Cronusmax Plus, you can use the Xbox One Elite controller on the Playstation 4, or even a mouse and keyboard.

As my health has deteriorated over the past few years, so has my gaming ability. Destiny’s Trials of Osiris event is a competitive multiplayer event where players must win nine matches of five rounds each against an opposing team. I went on a flawless run back in 2015, but I haven’t been since. Controllers are awful for me; playing with them often results in hand cramps and muscle spasms. It’s much less painful to aim with a mouse, so I’ve been eyeing a Cronusmax with an intent to use its mouse and keyboard controls to play Trials of Osiris again.

I was deeply concerned to hear that Jeff Kaplan, Vice President of Blizzard, had argued against the use of these devices. If Kaplan’s shortsighted suggestion became a reality, disabled gamers using assistive technologies would have their consoles rendered useless, not just for Overwatch, but for all games. Kaplan also suggested letting all consoles use mouse and keyboard controls natively, which would be fantastic for disabled gamers, but it’s frustrating to hear that he would even consider the first option.

How would an easy mode in Souls work? It’s simple: let players take a lot more damage before dying. It’s a blast to watch my friends take on the dual-boss fight of Ornstein and Smough, but that fight requires some flawless timing that I can’t always pull off. I tense my muscles when I’m trying to time things perfectly; not having to worry about timing would help me avoid triggering severe pain later on.

Obviously, there are better ways to adjust difficulty, but they would require a lot more work on the developer’s part. Tweaking enemy animations to provide longer ‘tells’ prior to attacking would be a great step. Dark Souls’ movements are animation-based, rather than input-based, which means that once you press a button, your character has to follow through with the animation before making another move. Giving player input priority over animation would let players correct mistakes a lot easier.

To a hardcore Dark Souls player, I’m sure this all sounds like heresy. The suggestions are moot, of course--From is done making Souls games, and it’s unlikely that they would ever patch in an easy mode. Souls is just an example, something I hope that future developers can learn from. I would like to enjoy your favorite game as much as you do, but I can’t, not as it is.

Playing video games literally saved my life. On my worst days, games make life bearable. Games give me community and distraction. So, when it comes to the question of whether Dark Souls have an easy mode, I think the obvious answer is yes. For me, an easy mode would let me play the game like it was meant to be played without worrying about crippling muscle spasms the next day. I just want to enjoy life and spend time with friends; games I can play without agony let me do that.

Ultimately, developers are welcome to do whatever they want to do with the games they want to make. My hope is that this piece initiates a conversation about how to open doors to everyone who wants to play or make video games. Living life with disability is hard mode, and there’s no option to change difficulties. If you have the ability to help us, would you?

#dark souls

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julianthebeautifulunicorn · 4 years ago

Photo

ID a digital drawing of many assorted objects all overlapping each other and each in a different color. end ID

apparently i can only draw out of spite now. this one is aimed at my art teacher because she hated it when i sketched like this, all overlapped and stuff, but it was fun and i never have to see her again hopefully so i can do what i want.

a sketch collection of cool stuff on and around my desk I drew while waiting for the thunder and lightning to stop. including, but not limited to (because there’s so much here, I can’t even tell anymore):

two drawings of one of my cats because he was asleep on my desk and laptop and at one point he attacked my hand, so i just kinda held his hand when he fell back asleep for like 20 minutes and it was really cute

a plastic margarita cup that I’m taking to college with me and I have three other matching ones

a tiny brick I keep sticky notes under such as the one with minecraft coordinates on it so i don’t get too lost

a World’s Best Cat Mom mug my sister sent me that’s really paint splattered and full of pens i didnt feel like drawing

the hilt of a bitchin letter opener that looks like a sabre but its misproportioned so it works as a letter opener but it actually bothers me a lot

a very small pink knife i bought online while getting some pants and found on the website by accident

one of a few small bells that I have already used two to make earrings one time at 11 pm because i got bored

a bottle of liquid glue i keep on my desk so i know when my cats are up there because they always knock it off

a small pink toy car that i kept in the pocket of my denim jacket for almost a year

a collection of blue glass pebble things i bought for a craft last year but only used one of them so now I just have this bag if pebbles, but the bag broke, so now i just have a lot of loose blue pebbles just kinda dispersed throughout my room

a small shovel that is actually a spoon that i Did spend too much money on but it was totally worth it

a cool button that originally i had on a book i made, but removed it

two of those keycard holder things that attach to your belt because in middle school we had to keep our ids on us and i broke the holder by running into stuff all the time so i collected a lot of the holders

a plastic broom handle cap from the time i stole all the broom handles (and Only the handles, which i still just kinda have all of them) from the auditorium, backstage, and the prop closet at my school

two fencing medals that i still have hanging up because fencing was a bigger part of my life than i like to admit

a foam bar tap, the first prop i ever made and keep displayed with playbills and cast/crew photos, one of which im not even in because i got a concussion cause a deer head fell on me on the first day if tech week and i was only allowed to leave the house on the day of the last performance, which wasnt even a regularly scheduled show, so im very glad i got to see some part of it and when i was at the show i made friends with someone because we were both wearing khakis

a clock i have on my desk because I moved the one that used to be there and is actually the only clock on my desk which is surprising considering the state of the rest of my room (covered in clocks)

a bottle of bright yellow nail polish that i made a beeline for once i saw it in a store so i could have a whole rainbow of nail polish

a plastic cup with a built in straw that i will also be taking to college because they look like the ones i used when i was a kid, but these specific ones i bought for my brother when he went to college because of the above reason

a single red 2x2 lego brick that i honestly dont know how it got in here

a small wooden box I keep quarters in that i want to paint but havent and probably wont

a small blue carabiner i took from my friends lunchbox a few years ago and is one of the three things I have stolen that I have actually kept (I keep track of them because I almost always give everything back and feel very guilty for these outliers, but i’ll probably never see those people again, so rip i guess) (the other two things are a black wooden pencil i took from a friend in 9th grade gym class and a blue and orange mechanical pencil i took from the same person as the carabiner) oh, i have two other things, i guess, but one i just kept taking and eventually i was allowed to keep it and the other is nearly identical and was given willingly to continue to joke i think and/or out of habit

…i may have actually gotten it all (plus a bunch of other stuff)

this is what happens when im tired and have internet access. i overshare. this is all youll ever need to know about me.

btw this is me substituting bringing someone into my room and telling them the stories behind all my tchotchkes because i Love to talk and tell stories but physically talking is hard

#aw beans thats a horrid id and i know it #i dont know how to describe this chaos #my keyboards kinda broken so typing is a little bit of hell #eye strain #tw eye strain #either this is gonna be obnoxiously long or im gonna learn how to make page breaks #haHA i have DONE IT..hopefully #the thunder and lightning have stopped. i can sleep.#jtbu art #all that really came from me drawing and listening to loud music to avoid having to sleep during a thunderstorm #if you read all that #i commend you #you now know very many things about me #i havent stayed up this late in a while #im so tired but im Vibing so #like #its fine #(its not. i need sleep)#oversharing

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the-casseroni · 6 years ago

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Welcome to Mad Max Even Maxier, or more seriously, Saturn’s Harbinger

The World of MMEM

This used to be our world, but that was a time so long ago it’s been out of living memory for millennia. When it started it was a world of magic and swords and gods, 20 of them to be precise. 9 major gods, and 11 minor gods, each connected to a major one. This version of our world carried on and all was fine. Gods did their best not to interfere (and quite frequently failed), epic heroes turned the tides of wars, inhuman creatures menaced the countrysides. But then, things started to come apart. One of these epic heroes, a fighter made by one of the gods, Pendragon, could sense that all was not right with the world as they grew ever closer to their last and thousandth year. A war was coming that would destroy the gods, one that they couldn’t hope to stop. And so, the gods were all destroyed, at first in one massive culling, and then one by one until the only one that remained was Mabuz, the god of death. But even they too fell. With the source of their power suddenly gone, the creatures, most if not all of them primordial spirits, fell into the Great Sleep. And the world started over, becoming the one we know today, the geography, history, languages, and magic of the world before all became lost. But the world kept turning, blissfully unaware of the one it had just lost.

Until one day, everything went cold. The sky tore itself apart and spirits that had been locked away long ago before the gods would intervene in human affairs freed themselves from the spirit world. And with them, they brought magic, nearly all the magic that had been lost. At a great cost. The spirits absorbed all the heat from everything around them, and they were intangible, incapable of touching the world. Before long, the world was devastated and all the land was one massive expanse of cold, the Endless Desert, a dry and sandy wasteland. The point where the barrier between the two worlds ripped became a powerful pole of magical energy, strong enough to overtake the Earth’s magnetic poles, making all compasses point West, towards it instead of North to the pole. Slowly but surely, the world built itself back up again. There was no way to salvage the ruins of the past, only to build on top of it. It wasn’t long before humans and spirits (these spirits later coming to be known as Earthbound spirits) could trade body parts with each other magically. Humans getting the edge of powerful new abilities that could potentially help them survive, and the spirits finally being able to attach themselves to the physical world and interact with it. And it wouldn’t be much longer until humans rediscovered magic. Before long balance started returning to the world, and the Endless Desert began to shrink, and it continues to do so. Causing the end of the Great Sleep, primordial spirits finally awoke into a world completely foreign to them, although their slumber had given them all the time they needed to go from mindless creature to sentient individuals.

The world pressed on, causing the way magic was practiced to splinter into two major groups. Old and New Magic, each appearing in that order. Old Magic drew on the font of magic within the earth around them, New Magic drawing on the font of magic within its user. It wasn’t long before the practitioners of these two magics grew hostile towards each other. New Magic ended up fighting a war against Old Magic, convinced in the belief that Old Magic would strip the magic out of the people around them too, leaving New Magic without its font of magic. New Magic quickly won this war and the surviving remnants of Old Magic went into hiding underground. Old Magic remained underground for generations, relying on the words of someone called The Herald of the Endless Children, a mantle passed down from generation to generation, who possessed a connection to a powerful spirit that would supposedly restore the balance between Old and New. It didn’t go as planned to say the least. Now bridges are forming between Old and New, while others are burning within Old Magic. And so we come into a new world. A world with no memory of the one before it inhabited by creatures, the lines between which get ever blurrier.

This world comes across as Homebrew but I can assure you, this is my attempt at reskinning the standard DnD world, as such, more details on the playable races are included in this overview of the history of the world. Note, classifications have blurry borders, a New Magic human with enough traded parts may be considered a Blood-Drawn by some, and spirits that have traded parts with each other tend to hold the label of the type of spirit they started off as

There are three varieties of spirits, each one is identical to a different type of elf in terms of stats

Primordial Spirits are drow

Spirits from the time of long-dead gods, some of them who were once mindless rampaging forces of nature have benefited from an ancient rest and have regained their mind or had a long enough time to form a mind of their own. Due to their history of mindless destruction

Celestial Spirits are high elves

The spirits that reside mostly in space, they’re the primary source of magic

Earthbound Spirits are wood elves

The spirits that most closely interact with humans although needing some sort of flesh-and-blood (for lack of a better word) anchor to allow them to interact with the physical world. Often considered the lowest of the spirits by their peers they are often servants in some respect to celestial spirits.

Going even further, we have the different varities of humans that exist in this world, which are all equivalent with various pre-existing dnd races

The Spirited

Stats are kalshatar, and are the hybrid children of humans and spirits, most closely resembling their human parent and possessing one trait characteristic of their spirit parent. These people are extremely rare and frequently don’t learn of their nature until they’re older and have had more time to study their magic.

Blood-Drawn

Stats are tieflings (because I couldn’t bear the thought of a campaign with no teiflings),The blood-drawn are a race of humans that emerged in the Endless Desert. They’re particularly adept at surviving in the ED because of their ability to easily integrate spirit parts. Sometimes doing it accidentally. Anyone can trade parts with spirits, it’s just that the Blood-Drawn don’t have to make it into an involved process for it to work. Nobody really has to fight for parts anymore in order to trade. But there are still pockets in the Endless Desert where this is a very important practice to them. And BloodDrawn parts fighters are frequently renowned in the ring, easily reshaping their bodies into a tactically ideal form for their favored fighting style. The blood-drawn trait can skip generations, causing a blood-drawn to be born from seemingly human parents sometimes. When playing a Blood-Drawn you start the game with one traded part from the below list:

Wind Spirit Legs- your base walking speed increases by ½

Wolf Spirit Legs- your Acrobatics or Athletics skill goes up by +1

Tendril arm (tendrarm)- an advantage on sleight of hand

Bat and Cat Spirit Ears- +1 to perception checks involving hearing

Prismatic Eyes- darkvision

Any mineral/stone body part- AC goes up by 1

Sand skin- +1 on stealth, survival, or nature

Old Magic Humans

Stats are genasi, connected by blood to an individual who somehow, by some fluke of genetic mutation could sync with the magic of the universe. Physically they are characterized by having a medium height and build, known for the markings that cover their skin, only visible to others with Old Magic. The markings are usually a lighter or darker version of their original skin tone although a handful of people have non-human skin tone markings.

New Magic Humans

Stats are humans, New magic humans, arising after the death of the gods and unsure of where to derive their magic from looked inward and found a well of power within themselves. New Magic humans look the most plain out of all the races in this world. They have no markings, no odd features, a base new magic human looks like a plain human that exists in our world. The only new trait worthy of mention is that if they’re injured to the point of bleeding while casting magic their blood will be a different color influenced by their magic. For example, a new magic human may bleed blue while casting.

#dnd #dnd 5e #dnd 5e homebrew #my campaign #campaign notes #worldbuilding #dungeon and dragons #lore #mad max even maxier #saturn's harbinger

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mundieoriley · 6 years ago

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An Open Doorway | Stephen Strange x Oc (Part Two)

Summary: Stephen Strange came to Kamar-Taj to repair his hands and return to his old life as a world renowned surgeon. Hayden Jones came to Kamar-Taj to escape her past and the abuse she faced for simply being as she was; a mutant.

When these two radically different individuals meet, an unlikely friendship is formed. But as feelings deepen and Kaecilius threatens everything Kamar-Taj stands for, Hayden Jones and Stephen Strange must stand even more firmly together to defeat Kaecilius and save the world.

Masterlist is linked on my profile page

Author's Note: Hey everyone! How's it going? I was so excited to bring you the next chapter, I just couldn't wait for midnight to come around to upload it. Thanks for reading and all of your support! I truly appreciate it!

Two: The New York Sanctum

Hayden jerks awake at the sound of raised voices. She shoots up from the table she fell asleep at, accidentally scattering the books on its surface and sending her chair tipping backward. She spins around, a stomach dropping familiar warmth coiling inside her hands, just at the surface, ready for action.

The three standing around another desk several feet behind her are too busy arguing to notice her violent awakening.

Taking a deep breath, Hayden quickly makes her way toward Stephen, Mordo, and Wong, the warmth leaving her fingers. Mordo is saying something about time loops and paradoxes, voice alarmed.

"They really should put the warnings before that stuff," Stephen says as Hayden stops on the other side of the desk.

"What the hell is all the ruckus about?" Hayden says, catching everyone's attention.

Mordo points an accusatory finger at Stephen. "He was playing with the time-space continuum!"

Stephen shoots Mordo a scowl. "I was not-"

"We do not tamper with natural law," Wong says, voice lowered and stern. "We defend it."

That's when Hayden notices the familiar eye shaped pendant around Stephen's neck. "Stephen, please tell me you weren't playing with the Eye of Agamotto. "

"I wasn't playing with anything-"

"How did you do that?" Mordo takes a small step closer to Stephen, keen eyes studying the other man's face. "Where did you learn the litany of spells to even understand it?"

Stephen's arms cross. "I have a photographic memory. It's how I was able to get my M.D and Ph.D at the same time."

Hayden momentarily tunes out of the conversation and leans over to get a better look at the book opened on the desk. Her eyebrows furrow as she turns the book around, scanning the sand script and the images on the page. She knows enough sand script to recognize the spell. It's the forbidden one the infamous Kaecilius stole six months ago. Hayden knows very little about the Eye of Agamotto, other than it can bend time, if one knows the extremely advanced spells to do so. Stephen must have used the Eye to put the spell back in the book.

"When are you going to start telling me what we are?"

Stephen's voice catches Hayden's attention and she refocuses on the conversation.

Mordo and Wong exchange a look, some silent message passing between the two of them. Hayden catches a look from Stephen thrown in her direction. She wants to know the answer to that question too. The Masters here, including the Sorcerer Supreme hold their cards close to their chests around the newcomers. Hayden has heard the Ancient One elude to a greater purpose Kamar-Taj serves other than helping lost souls find their way. She still doesn't know what that greater purpose is, but it looks as if she's about to find out.

Finally, Wong gestures for Stephen and Hayden to follow him and Mordo follows closely behind them. The librarian leads Hayden and Stephen up a small flight of stairs in the back of the library and into a large circular room. Three formidable doors are set into the opposite wall, a sizeable globe hanging above an empty pedestal set in the middle of the room. Hayden has caught glimpses into this room, but was never brave enough to venture in without permission. She halts, tilting her head up to get a better look at the globe and she sees as well as feels Stephen stop close beside her. She resists the sudden urge to take his hand and instead folds her arms, watching Wong and Mordo as they move to the other side of the pedestal.

"While heroes like the Avengers protect the world from physical dangers, we sorcerers safeguard it against more mystical threats," Wong says as he looks between Hayden and Stephen. "The Ancient One is the latest in a long line of Sorcerers Supreme going back thousands of years to the father of the mystic arts, the mighty Agamotto." Wong bends a stern look on Stephen and, if Hayden didn't know any better, she'd say he looks the slightest bit sheepish. "The same sorcerer who created the Eye you so recklessly borrowed."

Wong raises a hand and three large, golden spherical designs appear on the globe, encompassing the whole thing and casting light into the room. Hayden chances a glance at Stephen, noticing the way the light illuminates his eyes focused on the globe and the way it makes his cheek bones and facial structure much more prominent. She hastily looks away before any intrusive thoughts can enter her mind.

"Agamotto built three Sanctums in places of power, where great cities now stand. That door leads to the Hong Kong Sanctum, this door to the New York Sanctum. That one to the London Sanctum." Wong gestures to each door in turn as he names them off. "Together, the Sanctums generate a protective shield around our world. The Sanctums protect the world, and we the sorcerers the Sanctums."

Hayden's brain wheels as she processes this new information. The Chitauri attack on New York has made the threat of otherworldly beings more than clear. She just never imagined she'd play a part, however small, in protecting the Earth.

Stephen shifts his weight, probably unconsciously, in Hayden's direction. She can just start to feel the warmth of his hand against hers and she misses a good chunk of conversation thanks to her mind taking her unwillingly down a winding and extremely distracting Stephen filled path. She manages to rip herself back to reality just in time to hear about Dormammu and his quest to invade the universe and bring all worlds into his Dark Dimension.

Finally, Hayden finds her voice. "The pages that Kaecilius stole?"

"A ritual to contact Dormammu and draw power from the Dark Dimension," Wong says, his voice grave.

Mordo looks just as grave as Wong sounds.

"Woah, okay, timeout," Stephen says as he shakes his head, a note of uncertainty and disbelief in his voice. "I came here to heal my hands, not fight in some mystical war!"

Before anyone can respond, ominous bells toll.

"London." Wong says as he turns toward one of the doors.

"Kaecilius." Mordo says, fists clenched.

The door closest to Wong flies open with such force, it crashes violently against the stone wall. A man is running down a long hallway on the other side, but that's not what makes Hayden's eyes widen and her stomach drop. Standing further behind the fleeing man are three people, two in burgundy robes and the third in yellow. Before any of them can react, one person in red throws a strange reflective weapon, killing the fleeing man instantly. The yellow one conjures a large ball of golden energy above his head and raises his hands.

Hayden leaps forward without thinking, one hand extended. She hears Stephen call her name as a ball of fire leaves her palm, but it's too late.

Just as she feels a pair of arms catch her around her waist, Kaecilius strikes.

The energy orb explodes into the ground, creating a monumental blast that shatters the stone door like glass and throws Hayden and whoever caught her back. The duo crash through another Sanctum door, rocks roaring and collapsing, creating a large cloud of debris.

As the dust clears and the noise quiets, Hayden lays on her back half on top of her almost rescuer, eyes closed, too winded and stunned to move just yet, despite the uncomfortable press on her wings. Finally, she forces her eyes open and coughs, just as the someone underneath her lets out a groan and shifts their weight. She rolls clumsily off them and lays on the ground for a moment before forcing her aching body into a sitting position.

Stephen Strange sits up as well, perfect hair actually mused and face dirty from the debris cloud. He bleeds from a cut along one perfect cheekbone.

Before Hayden can even formulate a sentence, Stephen is shooting her a scowl. "What the hell were you thinking, leaping toward danger like that? You could have gotten us both killed!"

Hayden gets unsteadily to her feet. "It was instinctive, Strange and I didn't ask you to grab me." She wipes at her face, wincing when she makes contact with a cut near her hairline.

Stephen stands as well and takes a step closer to her, practically towering over her thanks to how tall he is. "If I hadn't stopped you, you'd be dead! So, you're welcome."

Hayden scoffs, throwing up her hands and turning away from him and looking down the dimly lit hallway leading further into the Sanctum. "Wow, can your head get any fatter?"

She doesn't bother to wait for his comeback.

Hayden begins to walk down the hallway, hoping to figure out which Sanctum she and Stephen were blasted into and get a bearing of her surroundings. She hears Stephen following her and she resists the urge to snap at him further. Now's not the time to be bickering.

The hallway opens up into a grand foyer, a large staircase going up to her left. Stain glass windows let in the afternoon sunlight and, if she listens carefully, she can hear voices outside and the sound of traffic passing by. Hayden turns to head up the staircase, but a warm and shaking hand snagging her wrist stops her.

"I saw what you did," Stephen says, voice lowered, his fingers tightening a bit.

Hayden freezes mid turn, face going pale and blood running cold. It had been a total accident to let that flame slip from her hand. God, it had to be the first time since-

Hayden jerks her wrist out of Stephen's grip and continues up the stairs as if he had never spoken. She hears him catch up to her, but she refuses to look at him.

They reach the top of the stairs and Stephen stops her again, this time by her upper arms and turns her to face him. "Why haven't you used it before now? Clearly you can control it, so why-"

"Stephen." Hayden meets his eyes, her jaw clenched and face tight. She can feel herself beginning to shake under his grip, old memories she's tried so hard to suppress beginning to surface. "Enough."

Stephen has the good sense to let her go. He looks down at the ground, away from her, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

Figuring that's as much of an apology she's going to get out of him and before she lets herself soften toward him, Hayden turns and makes her way further into the Sanctum. Stephen stays beside her, but doesn't try to initiate any conversation, much to her relief. She needs a bit of time to get her head back on straight.

The two enter a large room full of different artifacts kept in glass cases of various sizes. Most of them have some sort of mask or vase in them, all of which Hayden couldn't begin to guess the function of. It's strange, such normal looking items being kept behind glass cases, like priceless artifacts at a well known museum. Hayden passes one especially tall case, a vibrant red cape floating within. She pauses to look at it, admiring the golden clasps and the lovely color of the fabric. After a moment of being under Hayden's scrutinization, she swears the cape turns away from her with disinterest, just as Stephen steps up beside her.

Hayden feels distinctly offended and simultaneously ridiculous for letting a piece of clothing offend her.

Scoffing, she turns away from the cape, secretly hoping a similar reaction it gave her will irk it too. Freaking magic cloths and Sanctums and perfect cheekbones-

Unfamiliar voices drift into the room, causing Hayden to stiffen and prod Stephen with one of her wings. Without looking back, she slowly creeps toward the source of the noise, knowing Stephen is following close behind her. The thought both bothers and comforts her. That kind of emotional confusion is all Strange seems to be doing to her these days.

They pass silently through a large archway and press themselves against the wall, peeking around an artifact at the scene below.

Kaecilius and two of his zealots stand at the bottom of the staircase Stephen and Hayden used earlier, slowly approaching a man who must be a member of Kamar-Taj. She was too far away to see it before, but now Hayden notices the ugly purple scale like texture at the areas around Kaecilius' and his zealots' eyes. Just looking at them makes Hayden feel wrong, like something terrible and evil is leaking through those hideous scales into the real world, corrupting it.

"Daniel, I see they made you Master of the New York Sanctum," Kaecilius says, his calm voice and demeanor a jarring juxtaposition to the wrongness on his face.

"Do you know what that means?" Daniel's posture shifts into a defensive stance.

Kaecilius and his zealots mirror the Master's movement. "That you'll die defending it."

As he says this, Kaecilius presses his hands together before bringing them apart slowly, an oddly shaped and wickedly sharp object forming between his hands. It reminds Hayden of a long piece of glass. The light refracts off its surface, casting a momentary glare in her eyes. Hayden blinks rapidly to dispel the sudden glare and between one blink and the next, the fighting erupts. She jerks forward to help, join the fight, something.

Stephen is already shoving her roughly behind him and emerging from their hiding place."Stop!"

Thanks to the surprising force behind his shove, Hayden stumbles back several paces before falling on her butt with a painful thump. She's just about to get back to her feet, reminding herself to give Stephen a piece of her mind later if they make it out of this alive, but the sound of casual, casual, conversation gives her pause.

"Just Doctor?" That's Kaecilius, voice as calm as ever.

Hayden, with a steadying fist to the ground, gets back to her feet.

"It's Strange," Stephen says.

No, it's irritating, selfless, Fathead Strange.

She begins moving forward with caution, hoping no one down below notices her.

"Maybe," Kaecilius says, a shrug apparent in his voice. "Who am I to judge?"

Just as they come into Hayden's sight, the zealots and Kaecilius leap into action. Hayden is already airborne, soaring over Stephen's head, and full body tackling Kaecilius to the ground. They tumble several feet thanks to Hayden's momentum, grappling for the upper hand .

They come to a stop and Kaecilius gains the advantage over her, stabbing down with the strange glass like weapon. Hayden barely manages to form a shield in time. The weapon bounces off it and Hayden strikes out with her other hand, knocking Kaecilius off balance.

She takes her chance and heaves him away from her.

Hayden scrambles to her feet as Kaecilius stands gracefully, appraising her with slightly narrowed eyes. She returns his stare, unwavering.

Kaecilius winds back his weapon and Hayden dives to the side. She feels the blade stir some of her feathers. She hits the ground and manages a sloppy roll and, using her distraction, Kaecilius bolts up the stairs.

With a curse, Hayden gets to her feet and gives chase, reaching the next level with a powerful flap of her wings.

She dashes into the artifact room and follows the sound of shattering glass off to her right. She clatters down a set of stairs. Hayden rounds a corner and nearly tumbles off an edge that shouldn't logically be there. The hallway has been turned on its head and Kaecilius and one other zealot stands in the middle of it like nothing is wrong at all. Hayden spots Stephen at the bottom, pulling himself out of one of three a doorways.

The hallway slowly turns back to its natural state.

Hayden dashes down toward Stephen, who is grappling with the remaining zealot. He reaches for a glowing knob on the wall next to the broken door leading out to what appears to be a desert. She can just make out a red clad person running through the sand for the door.

Hayden blows past Kaecilius, skids past Stephen and the zealot, and rotates the knob. The scenery changes to that of a peaceful forest.

She whirls back around, just in time to see Stephen shove the other zealot through a second glass door and rotate the knob, turning the landscape from a tropical rain forest to the Grand Canyon. They barely have time to make eye contact before Kaecilius is there, dual wielding those glass like swords.

He slashes at Hayden, forcing her to jump back, before he goes for Stephen. Strange manages to block one blow and Hayden leaps forward to catch Kaecilius' other arm. They struggle with him and, with surprising strength, Kaecilius grabs Stephen by the collar and tosses him aside like so much garbage. He catches Hayden with a hard backhanded blow across the face, knocking her to the ground.

She sees stars as her head spins and then Stephen is there, getting her to her feet and urging her ahead of him as they run. Hayden can hear Kaecilius pursuing them and, as they get swiftly up the stairs, Stephen conjures a glowing whip and Hayden her shields.

As soon as they reach the top of the stairs, they turn around just as Kaecilius jumps the railing and lands before them. Stephen strikes out at him with the whip and Kaecilius deflects it. Hayden, taking advantage of the opening, kicks him square in the chest.

Using his momentum, Kaecilius latches onto a pillar, swings around it and knocks Stephen into Hayden. This causes both their magical weapons to fizzle into nonexistence. They both crash through a glass case and land harshly, Stephen half atop her, in a tangle of limbs among broken glass on the other side. His sudden weight knocks the wind out of her lungs and cracks the back of her head against the ground.

Just as suddenly it was there, Stephen's weight is gone.

Kaecilius throws him through yet another case and steps over Hayden likes she's not even there. She snatches clumsily at his legs and manages to latch onto one. She doesn't see the blow coming until Kaecilius' other foot connects with her ribs.

She cries out breathlessly, the force of the blow rolling Hayden over and disengaging her from his leg. She struggles to catch her breath, every gasp of air she takes sending sharp bolts of pain through her body. Hayden forces herself to her knees, one arm wrapped around her aching side. She catches sight of Stephen laid against the broken case containing the floating cape from earlier, Kaecilius standing over him, glass sword raised.

#drstrange #fanfiction #romance #mutantoc #stephenstrangexoc

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eddiejpoplar · 7 years ago

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One Week With: 2017 BMW M760i xDrive

LOS ANGELES, California — Ten seconds and a quick stab of the throttle reveal that the 2017 BMW M760i xDrive is no ordinary M Performance car with a small handful of performance add-ons and some carbon fiber appliques. It’s a rip-snorting, tire-squealing land yacht for the affluent, the dictatorial, and those who’ve always wanted BMW to build an M7. The more you think of it as BMW’s M7, and not a regular 7 Series with a silly long name, the more you’ll start contemplating a bank heist to pay for one.

Don’t believe the M7 hype? Just look at its specs. BMW swapped the 445-hp twin-turbocharged V-8 of the 750i for the absurdity of a Rolls-Royce-derived 6.6-liter twin-turbocharged V-12. Unlike the Rollers, which have to make do with just 563 hp in the Dawn and Ghost, BMW’s version offers a far more prodigious 601 hp and 590 lb-ft of torque—enough to exit low-earth-orbit.

Hitting 60 mph takes a hair’s breadth over three seconds thanks in part to the M760i’s xDrive all-wheel drive system and gummy Michelin Pilot Super Sport tires, which glue the bruiser to tarmac and asphalt. BMW states the M760i’s top speed is electronically limited to 155 mph, but the physical speedometer affixed to the car’s dash reads a take-off speed of over 200 and we’re inclined to believe the veracity of its claim after our short time in the driver’s seat.

These are proper M numbers—numbers that belong in the same breath as the M2, M3, M4, M5, and M6. But if the numbers don’t make you a believer, getting behind the wheel will.

Aboard the BMW on tight California back-roads, the Michelin tires and adjustable sport-tuned suspension permit the big sedan to stick to the pavement with little drama. Here, where corners are strung together with the severity of a shark wound, the titanic sedan feels more similar to its much smaller kin. Its heft is undeniably felt, but there’s an unshakeable agility to the M760i that’s very M3-like and thoroughly enjoyable.

That personality gives you the confidence to dive deeper into braking zones, turn harder, and throttle out with lightning-like speed and authority. I’d seriously hesitate to challenge the M760i on a racetrack as here, along the snake-like Californian highways, it feels like it would be difficult for a host of modern, more purpose-built sports cars to out-run or out-maneuver the supposedly luxury-oriented sedan.

One small quibble I can almost overlook—almost—is the steering wheel’s girth. For the last few years, BMW steering wheels have gone from perfectly pencil-thin to Gatorade-bottle-thick. The M760i is no different. As such, I never developed confidence in my hand placement while tackling the tight switchbacks.

Nevertheless, while the M760i’s handling makes it feel smaller than it is, once the twelve-cylinder engine and its twin-turbos spool up, you’re glad it has that longer wheelbase.

Put down through a sublimely quick 8-speed automatic transmission, the M760i’s acceleration isn’t like a supercar’s, angrily shouting as the world goes plaid. Rather, the twin-turbocharged V-12 propels the M760i with a force that feels like tectonic plates smashing into one another, pushing aside pieces of each other’s landmass in its wake.

There’s a sense of urgency, but not a sense of harshness. Think of it as the anti-911 Turbo S, where launching from a standstill feels as if you’re damaging your internal organs. That’s not the way of the M760i. Power builds and builds and builds until you’re doing extra-legal speeds stupendously far from where you started. It’s addictive and you’ll find yourself cruising on the highway well above the fastest legal limits in any state of the Union, just as you’d find yourself in any of its real M siblings.

But the M760i needs to be so much more than just a locomotive M car to be a success; it also needs to maintain the quintessential luxury formula of the 7 Series. That formula means transporting the 7 Series’ various owners and/or clients speedily in spacious comfort, devoid of sound, vibrations, and all other senses. A 7 Series should be a perfectly sealed safe, protecting and cosseting its occupants from the outside through thick doors, acoustic glass, and indulgent leather. And BMW’s M760i almost checks each of these boxes.

Inside, the bank-vault-like doors close with a commanding thud, sealing occupants away. Outer noise, whether it is from wind or the throngs of the unclean masses, is practically nonexistent. There’s just a hint of wind noise that comes through near the B-pillar at around 90-95 mph, but fret not, as the M760i comes complete with one of the finest audio systems on sale today and will drown out every ounce of road and wind noise that’s able to seep into the cabin.

Equipped with the standard Hi-Fi Harmon/Kardon audio system (a1,400-watt Bowers & Wilkins system is available for $3,400 extra), the 16-speaker, 600-watt system is truly wonderful. High notes are crisp and bass notes suitably rumbly. I played concertos by Phillip Glass, Run the Jewels’ bombastic lyrics, operatic solos by Peter Hollens, and the party-starting lyrics of “Do Something Crazy” by Outasight. Nothing became distorted. Even reaching the upper echelons of the speaker’s volume capacity, myself singing along (definitely not in harmony), the music came through crystal clear. You just settle into the indulgent leather seats and let the music wash over you.

What isn’t tailored for anyone without a fetish for masochism, however, is the car’s iDrive system. When BMW first launched the iDrive system years ago, I worked at one of the company’s dealerships. It took five people two hours to figure out how to change the radio station. Somehow, in the interim, BMW has made the system even more impervious to consumer use; for instance, the simple task of pairing my iPhone.

It’s a routine I do on a nearly daily basis. Most systems take a minute. The BMW took nearly twenty—for comparison, I timed Ford’s new Raptor at just 30 seconds the day after I got out of the BMW. I thought I had paired my iPhone on the first try, but nothing worked. Not my phone, not my music, nothing. I unpaired it, re-paired it, unpaired it again, almost gave up, attempted to re-pair the phone, swearing it would be the last time and finally succeeded after finding the right command.

Feeling triumphant, I then made the mistake of looking for the M760i’s massage function—a mistake of biblical proportions, excuse the hyperbole. But buried under layer after layer of menus, and another twenty minutes of damning the iDrive to hell, I finally found the massage seats controls. I may come from the generation where tech literacy is second nature, but this system is maddening to learn even for a millennial such as me.

Where the car falls slightly, however, isn’t in the impregnable interface—that can be learned—but rather after you’ve turned off the serpentine canyons, switched back to Comfort mode, and began cruising along on your daily commute.

In the M760i, BMW made a M7, unfortunately building something slightly antithetical to the 7 Series’ image of luxurious comfort in the process. On uneven pavement, like the kind you get in nearly every state in the U.S. of A., it transmits far too much noise and harshness back into the cabin for the thin royal bloodlines BMW targets with the 7 Series lineup. Our roads aren’t the pristinely smooth ribbons of tarmac that Germany and the rest of Europe enjoy, and that’s a big problem in a car optioned with 20-inch rims and nearly painted-on Michelin summer performance run-flat tires.

Tooling around town, it never delivers the ride quality the 7 Series is known for, let alone that of its main competitor, the S-Class, which, even in S63 and S65 AMG trims, is buttery smooth. While it could never deliver racecar levels of jitteriness, no matter how well the suspension’s “Comfort” mode is able to keep up with the ruts, pitted, and uneven pavement, there’s too little meat on the tires for the suspension to work with and impart a ride that befits its occupant’s stature. A tire with more sidewall would go a long way to helping smooth out the M760i’s ride. The available 19-inch wheels and associated all-season performance run-flat tires could aid in decreasing the relatively harsh ride.

When I was first wrestling with the M760i, I thought the car had too much of a split personality. On paper, the big Bimmer should be everything any monarch, head of state or dictator would ever want. It has a quiet yet powerful twin-turbocharged V-12 that feels as if it relishes in wafting you 3,000 miles to your summer castle and a presence that projects power and control. When I found that it lacked the basic luxuries of ride, comfort, and quietness that a 7 Series should offer, I thought it needed to choose from among its multiple personalities. Now I realize it just needs to have the right name.

If it were up to me, I would keep the upgraded V-12 engine, but add the smaller wheels and tires with more sidewall, and a softer-tuned suspension—a proper M760i. BMW could then label the car we tested a proper M7. But until BMW finds a focus for its top-spec 7 Series, I’ll pretend the “-60i xDrive” fell off the badge and it just says M7.

2017 BMW M760i xDrive Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $157,695/$171,895 (base/as tested) ENGINE 6.6L twin-turbo DOHC 48-valve V-12/601 hp @ 5,500 rpm, 590 lb-ft @ 1,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 8-speed dual-clutch LAYOUT 4-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, AWD sedan EPA MILEAGE 13/20 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 206.2 x 74.9 x 58.2 in WHEELBASE 126.4 in WEIGHT 5,250 lb 0-60 MPH 3.4 sec TOP SPEED 155 mph

#IFTTT #Performance Junk Blogger 6

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jesusvasser · 7 years ago

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One Week With: 2017 BMW M760i xDrive

These are proper M numbers—numbers that belong in the same breath as the M2, M3, M4, M5, and M6. But if the numbers don’t make you a believer, getting behind the wheel will.

Nevertheless, while the M760i’s handling makes it feel smaller than it is, once the twelve-cylinder engine and its twin-turbos spool up, you’re glad it has that longer wheelbase.

2017 BMW M760i xDrive Specifications

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robertkstone · 7 years ago

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One Week With: 2017 BMW M760i xDrive

These are proper M numbers—numbers that belong in the same breath as the M2, M3, M4, M5, and M6. But if the numbers don’t make you a believer, getting behind the wheel will.

Nevertheless, while the M760i’s handling makes it feel smaller than it is, once the twelve-cylinder engine and its twin-turbos spool up, you’re glad it has that longer wheelbase.

2017 BMW M760i xDrive Specifications

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jonathanbelloblog · 7 years ago

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One Week With: 2017 BMW M760i xDrive

These are proper M numbers—numbers that belong in the same breath as the M2, M3, M4, M5, and M6. But if the numbers don’t make you a believer, getting behind the wheel will.

Nevertheless, while the M760i’s handling makes it feel smaller than it is, once the twelve-cylinder engine and its twin-turbos spool up, you’re glad it has that longer wheelbase.

2017 BMW M760i xDrive Specifications

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